


The Wild Hunt

by Aozi



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe – Sentinels and Guides are Known, Angst, Dark, Language, M/M, Romance, Shamanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aozi/pseuds/Aozi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years have passed since Blair's dissertation was made public and upsetting a lot of folks in nearly every field sentinels are involved in. But Jim would not reproduce his phenomenal range and control for officials forcing Blair to call himself a fraud. Having left Rainier U and Cascade under a cloud of suspicion he's now bittersweetly amused by it all and is working as a gas station attendant. He's actually doing just fine, even successful in rebuilding his life. Until Jim shows up trying to heal from injuries he refuses to talk about and with one request: Temporary shelter. Please.</p><p>Blair doesn’t know how to react to this older Jim with his iron discipline and eerily patient, apologetic ways...</p><p>A/N August 2013:  Nothing new is being written because this has become a massive behind-the-scene editing project.  On the other hand there is a couple of new chapters that will be added at the same time as the edits are uploaded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blair's 1st person POV. This is my first fanfic in the Sentinel fandom.
> 
> This was inspired by Sentinel_Thurs Challenge #450 Smile, a reoccurring dream and Little Red Riding Hood. Oh, and Blair cut his hair.

I'm awake. As quiet as he is I’m always aware of his movements and I wake immediately when he does. Turning to look out the sliding glass doors I could see it's still dark. Yellow light from the street lamps casts a fading rectangle across the room to where a small alarm clock burnt the time into the air. I didn't need it but I bought one last night.

He is always up at four on the dot. I'm not surprised. In the four years since I’ve seen him this hasn't changed. It comforts me to know I'm not the only one insecure enough to wake up before dawn can creep over me like a backstabbing lover.

This dawn felt breathless with anticipation for the coming day. Or it could just be me. It's funny now that I let myself think about the past. I used to fantasize about this moment, when we’ll meet again. Is this what relief feels like? It’s inevitable, isn’t it?

I left Rainier University where people don't forget and most definitely don't forgive. I'll probably always be a fraud to them. An opportunistic – what was it he called me early on? Oh, yes – “neo-hippie witch-doctor punk”. And if that didn’t date him, I’m not sure what does.

When I'm alone and lonely I used to torture myself with “what-ifs”. The things I did, the things I gave up, the choices I made, and then I find myself wondering who, exactly, I was trying to save. We never got around to that point though. Too much, too soon, was my excuse. I’ve since stopped trying to come up with one for him.

I _am_ horrified at how I’m using my psychology degree but mostly I’m just numb these days. I'm currently working at a gas station. I still remember the fear, the rage, that the world can blissfully go on without my involvement, without acknowledging my sacrifice. And I still couldn’t forgive myself anyway, letting it all go in the end.

Then it hit me. So?

My world ended.

The world doesn’t owe me anything. I certainly don’t owe it.

I got on with my life.

I can even say I’m content. No kidnappings, no worries about a phenomenally repressed man with overactive senses, no murderers, no white supremacists and certainly no obsessive former government agents who can’t take no for an answer. Just Mr. Mercedes Man on his way to his nine-to-five and his cheesy 8AM pick-up lines or if it’s the weekends, Mrs. Mayberry in her bright muumuu patiently waiting in the corner of the minimart for the 9AM bus ride to the Bingo hall.

My shift doesn't start for another two hours but I can't go back to sleep. Neither can I hear my new roommate walking around but then the sound of water crashing against plastic starts up across the hall and I flinch. The memories of that long, toned body, of the texture of his skin – even now I’m reminded of vanilla ice cream coated in honey – all of it slick behind the haze and steaming water came to me despite my thoughts of, “Pink elephants. _Pink elephants and polka dotted panthers!_ ”

I don’t want this and shame boils hotly in my stomach. I tried to think of my job with all of its little details. The memory exercises no longer worked, I can easily see the wide expanse of Jim’s back in my mind, his muscles shifting and bunching lazily as he rolled his head...

I don’t want these feelings. We were friends. And that was more than four years ago! I haven’t seen him since.

I sat up with a sigh. Better go see what's for breakfast instead.

\-----

Through the kitchen window I could see the Eastern horizon lightening to a silvery blue. Taking over precious counter space were two salmon filet drying on a rack next to a note; “Breakfast: Place the salmon in individual aluminum foils, skin side down. Trim the aluminum 1/4th from the edge and coat liberally with the seasoning mix next to the fish. Fold the aluminum edges up then place into the electric smoker for 45 minutes.”

I didn’t bother wondering where or how Jim managed to get salmon and diligently followed the exacting directions. I kept the light off when I came back into the kitchen, looking for the tea kettle. I didn't want to see the sorry state of the appliances, the worn counter top or the bare, yellowed linoleum floor. The house is small and in a crowded, violent neighborhood but the rent is cheap. It helped that I didn't have to pay for garbage pickup, sewage, light, water or other utilities either. All of which were astronomically high this year and didn't look to be coming down in the next few decades.

The economy is not in recession but it's hard to tell with a look at the people shuffling down the street. History books often notes that recession, like war, would return. It is the downside of civilization, and for recessions it seemed to come at the end of a ten year cycle. Now that the decade is ending recession is settling in if it’s to be believed.

Another reason why I'm a gas station attendant. We're difficult to outsource and even in a tight economy during several ugly wars on the other side of the planet Americans still liked going places. Fast.

I looked out the kitchen window again. It's getting lighter. I could just make out the massive, overgrown hedge surrounding the property. I stopped and stared at the razor straight geometry it's been pruned into. That’s not right.

When I moved in the hedge sprawled, glorious and wild. The only way to get into the property was through the garage. The wall of greenery with its tangle of thin, gnarly new growth clawing skyward was like something out of a fairy tale. The sheer effort of hacking my way through, forming a surprisingly deep tunnel, to reach the street that gave the house its address was unbelievably satisfying.

I'm not aware of opening the French doors until the cool air washed over me. It pebbled my skin, ruffling my hair and I shivered. Everything smelled like freshly turned dirt, of dead vegetations, pungent and gritty on the air. I looked down at the lush carpet of grass my toes were curling in. The cut was so fresh I can almost feel the sheared edges atop every blade. It smelled indescribably green, clearing my head.

A deliberate rustling sound behind me gave me a heads up. I didn’t turn around. “Did you do all of this?”

“Yes,” Jim replied.

I struggled to breath and inhaled the sweet air deeply, evenly. I don’t like change, especially when it was done without my permission to my belongings. Logic pointed out that I don’t own the property. I squashed it down to just another voice in my head.

Knowing didn’t make the feeling of invasion any less relevant to me. It's an accusation I didn’t mask, “Why?”

Speaking is no longer painful for him but I couldn’t think about that right now. I couldn’t think about how angry or scared and confused I was when I found out he was injured. Now it's rage. Rage so sulfurous and thick it oozed through me with all the destruction of a pyroclastic flow.

“It’s a hazard.” Jim is safety-minded that way. His tone said, “Idiot.”

 _“What do you care?!”_ Was going to be my response but I'm awake enough at this point for my social filter, and arguably much more important sense of self-preservation, to kick in.

The shrubbery is too dense, growing untamed as it did. It offered too much cover in case of an attack. Jim thinks like a man under constant siege. The thought dampened my anger for a few seconds.

Is that why he searched me out after all these years? Did this have anything to do with why he was injured? Did I want to know? To get caught up again in his world?

Coward that I am, I retreated to a safer topic, “Is the bathroom free?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave breakfast to you then.”

Jim isn’t directly behind me when I went back into the house. Dressed in dark slacks and a long sleeve T, I almost ran into him where he stood so still in the dark kitchen. Edging past him I caught the familiar frown knitting those straight brows together but I rounded the corner, escaping into the hallway, before he could decide on what to say.

\-----

I let the water pound the fatigue and nihilistic thoughts from my head and shoulders. It is my daily morning ritual. I don't usually give in to self pity but hey, even over-educated, fast-talking child geniuses has the right to feel sorry for himself sometimes. The talking heads all agreed it is necessary for a healthy mental outlook and I’m all for being healthy.

I turned off the shower. I think the skin on my back was washed down the drain with the water and stray hair. I rub the towel vigorously over it all anyway. I then put in some extra time in font of the mirror, messed with my hair. Picked at it, shoved it around, side to side and then behind my ear. Wouldn't stay.

Now burnished red over several shades of brown where the sun had lightened it during last Summer spent volunteering at a nature camp, it is subtly alien. Not quite mine. Short, thick and crinkling, it curled against my scalp, and I still do double-takes when I walk past any reflective surface. At least I no longer have to think about all the hair products I had to use in the past. They were getting just as expensive as toilet paper.

A knock on the bathroom door startled me into nearly swallowing my tongue while brushing my teeth. Once I was done coughing it back up I hollered, “Yeah?" I tried not to let my guilt at taking over the bathroom color the word too loudly.

Jim’s voice hummed through the laminated door, "I was wondering if you're going into work today?"

“Depends on my mood,” I was about to reply but something about his tone made me chuck it in favor of, "In about an hour, yeah. What’s up?"

"Will you sit and have breakfast with me? I'd like to talk.”

Jim's volunteering to talk. For a second I stared blankly at my toothbrush. This can't be good. But I haven’t had company for breakfast since leaving Cascade. I miss it. “Sure.”

“The salmon will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks.”

\-----

Walking by the room Jim used made me shake my head. Next door to mine and just a little bigger, a previous renter had burnt a cross into one of the walls. The owner wouldn't do anything about it. I could have covered it up, painted it over or otherwise ignored it but I would always know it is there. I kept that door closed. Jim found a painting in the attic to hang over it and that was that.

In the living room Jim stood in front of the house's one redeeming feature; its floor-to-ceiling picture window which took up one entire wall. It looked out onto a newly manicured lawn. He turned and nailed me to the floor with those blue, blue eyes. Despite our similar eye color his seemed armored in frost. Not that I blame him, or anyone, for that matter.

“Let’s start over,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

There were no lights on in the house but there is just enough from the street lamps for me to see the smile ghosting over lips. It's like being punched. Suddenly it was almost a decade ago and I was being introduced to Cascade Police Department's Major Crime Unit's Captain Simon Banks as Detective James Joseph Ellison’s ride along.

And our shared secret was damned funny and sad and crazy and awesome all at the same time. Maybe nostalgia hadn’t painted everything in roses and it really had been like that. Maybe I’m the one who forgot what really mattered.

That same smile appeared again when adrenaline made me temporarily insane after knocking several bad guys out with a fire hose. How hyped up I was. I thought I was invincible and even demanded to go on more dangerous assignments with him. “I’m good, did you see that, Jim? I can totally handle it, man!” I cringed, the echo of my words and Jim’s surprisingly tactful head shake was both a treasured memory and a squirming embarrassment, usually picked over whenever I needed a reminder of my hubris.

My fingers kept combing through what’s left of my hair.

“When did you cut it?”

I dropped my hand, “About a week ago.” Too soon for old habits to die.

I stood in Jim’s silence while becoming lost in the past again. I never knew when he moved but he's now less than an arm’s length away and getting closer. Surprise forced me solidly into the present and I backed into the dusty darkness of the hallway. I could see his pale eyes tracking my retreat.

He stopped just before entering the shadows. “Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

I didn’t reply, caught by the low murmur of his voice. I didn’t want to interrupt him, greedy as I am to hear him again after so long. Even after everything, even if it is all accusations and anger, I could live with it until he leaves again.

“Can you forgive me?”

I frowned, is this about the landscaping or that press conference so long ago? I wanted to say, “I followed you around, annoying you until you gave in, shouldn't I be asking for your forgiveness?” or “What about you forgiving me for destroying _your_ life when you've already got it handled, Jim?” but honesty won out; “I don’t know.”

He took one step towards me. I took two back.

The kitchen timer screamed and I fell into a defensive crouch, adrenaline snapping along my nerves. The odd buzzing-ringing sound turned off with the same abruptness as it started.

“I’ll serve,” Jim said but I could barely hear him over the hard, thudding beats of my heart. I didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for one. When I heard the patio doors open I forced myself to get up.

After a few minutes I managed to follow without too much fuss.

The fish is perfect, moist and filling.

We ate in silence.

I am washing the dishes and Jim is drying them when he spoke again, “Thanks for taking me in.”

Jim was like listening to an old favorite movie, one I can quote and act too in perfect sync, making my chest tighten and throat hurt from the good memories. This reenactment will never be the same as it once was. I nodded without agreeing. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Us.”

I nearly threw the dishes at him. I thought of saying something cute, an irreverent reflex against caring too much and getting hurt again. But I didn’t because the sullen pain burning in me still did.

“I’m sorry I blamed you. I'm sorry I lied to protect myself and left you hanging. I'm sorry. Chief-” My automatic protest strangled to death without a sound in the face of his apology or maybe it was the raised hand, though possibly it's just hearing the old nickname. “Chief, Naomi had no right to go in to our home and touch our belongings. Your privacy was violated just as mine were-”

“N-”

“She used her privileges as a mother, believing she knows what’s best, instead of trusting you as one adult to another. Did you ever let yourself truly forgive her?”

“N-nothing to f-forgive.” I felt light-headed, queasy, as if the ground is subtly tilting and I can’t find my balance no matter which way I moved. “It’s my fault.” Is that rasping sound my voice? “Naomi-”

“-realizes she was wrong. She’s been trying to contact you and finally called me for help. I've made peace with her.”

“Is that your excuse, Jim?” The knowledge made me bite off each word, grinding them between my teeth.

Jim continued drying the dishes with economic wipes. “If you need one.”

“If _I_ ne-” I clenched my teeth together, arms stiff and palms gripping the counter's edge with a white-knuckled grip. My life, my name, my home, all gone, and this is what I get? I have to ignore this, just ignore it for now. Taking a deep breath, I managed an almost civil, “How _are_ your senses?”

“Blair,” he said, reaching for me.

This time I swung. He dodged and I followed with a left jab towards his throat. Jim is still fast and managed to twist out of the way but my right knee met his side from the opposite direction. He doubled over. Except I knew he could have blocked that move and frustrated, I backed away.

“Freebie,” Jim gasped.

“Fuck you,” I replied.

“Feel better now?”

“No.”

We found the kitchen table at the same time. I sat down heavily. Jim sat more carefully, grimacing with an arm pressed to his side and folded over his stomach.

The sun is higher now, flooding the house with soft light and heating the air. The kitchen window faced East and I sat with my back to it, watching as he zoned on the dust floating in the sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

The pale blue disappeared in the buttery light leaving only the flat black of his pupils, blown and unblinking. I tapped the table top slowly, wondering if I really want to start this up again. Wondering when I became so fragile where I can only think about me and not about the person in front of me.

“Jim.”

“Yes.”

I straightened, startled at getting an answer. It wasn’t a full zone out then. His pupils flickered, tightening then opening in quick succession. Jim tracked me without turning his head. “Whoa, hey, big gu-”

“I’m losing control.”

He said it the same way I used to say, “Man, this is totally _not_ cool.” Equal parts exasperated, amused and curiously resigned about what’ll happen next after being kidnapped in the middle of yet another terrorist attack for the second time in a week. Too scared to be scared anymore. Yeah, those were the days.

“That's fine, you're allowed too, you know. It's only when you get lost for days in your own head or zone out where external hazards will mow you down that it becomes a problem.”

Blue eyes became hooded, “Yes.”

I stopped my tapping. Those eyes flickered from my fingers back up to my face. “Do you still use dials?”

“Yes.”

“What’s different this time?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“I can finally let go.”

Jim lowered his head, turning slightly and the shadow of his nose fell like a blade across a hollow cheek, highlighting an equally thin smile. His long face is severely handsome in age, hard and distant, now unfamiliar with lines etched in pain.

“I finally feel safe.”

“Funny,” I mused, forcing my attention past his shoulders into the darkness in the rest of the house, “that’s the way I used to feel.”

\-----

It didn’t last long. Jim slowly blinked then his pupils constricted, sharpening into full awareness. Curiosity is going to get me kicked out of his life again but I couldn't resist, “How are you feeling?”

He took his time replying, “Good.”

“Where's your anchor? Shouldn't they be here by now?”

“I don't have one currently.”

 _Why not?_ I knew better than to ask that out loud. Having an anchor, a focus, is similar to using a calculator. Some people don't need tools to do trigonometry and some can't function without it to do basic subtraction. Jim was one of the rare fortunate ones whose remarkable control enabled him to survive without one for most of his life.

“-trust them.”

Confused, I looked back at him. “What?”

The lines deepened briefly around his mouth. Damn, caught. “I can't trust them to not be curious. You figured out I was lying on the tests. Someone else could easily do the same.”

“I was with you nearly every hour of the day, seven days a week,” I pointed out.

“I consulted with one for a couple of years after you left, Sandburg. Happy?”

I grabbed an orange to keep from punching him again. “When they show up. Now what triggered this?”

Hesitation, then, “Touch.”

“Shit, how serious? You were injured and I kicked you again.”

He shrugged, looking away. “It's healing.”

“I'm sor-”

“Stop apologizing.”

I sighed, punctured the orange skin and stared at the tiny mist spraying into the air. The acidic tingle in my nose is refreshing but I knew for Jim it is a whole other world. I concentrated on peeling the orange until I could offer half of it. “Do you think this is similar to a release valve or an overflow drain?”

Jim's nostrils flared then, shrugging, he took the orange. “Your area of expertise.”

“You're not a guinea pig.”

His lips kicked up then thinned out again but the creases at the corner of his eyes remained contrarily making him look younger.

I wasn't sure if I was glaring at him because he made me feel bad or because I squished my half of the orange in reflex. “Ugh.”

“Don't move.” He toed the trashcan over on his way to dampening a towel. I murmured a thanks when he returned and set to work on my hands. He sat close enough that his knee touched my thigh.

I can see the stark white strands peeking between his sable-brown hair, catching the morning light. It's slightly longer than the skull cap he used to ruthlessly prune it into every four days. Now spiked carelessly back from his face, the change was what convinced me he was real last night. Jim Ellison really was standing on my front porch, asking to be let in. Asking to change my life. Again.

“I miss you.”

I didn't reply since my throat swelled, scratchy with tears. I just kept working the sticky juices out from between my fingers.

“I was scared.” Jim leaned over the table and grabbed his peeled oranges. “I'm already scrutinized and poked at and examined every month-”

“-but if they knew just how strong you really are, that you managed to lie so convincingly from the very beginning against their fancy tests your life really would be over,” I finished for him, hearing my academic excitement creeping back in. I crushed it before continuing, “I get it. I'm sor – um – I was only trying to help-”

“Someone else knows the truth.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to proclaim my innocence. I left all of my research along with what's left of the dissertation at Jim's place. I no longer have any kind of copy. “What h-happened?”

Jim chuckled making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The sound is low and nasty, grating against my ear. “They tried to use you as a bargaining chip.”

“I want to be impressed but...” trailing off, I winced at the fear masquerading as snark.

“They're dead,” he replied, still morbidly amused. “I made sure of it.”

“But not before you were injured.”

“I was more worried about you.” He held out an orange wedge and I reached for it but instead got a wagging finger. I blinked, he smiled, and I wondered what game he's playing at. I still opened my mouth. He continued speaking through our little negotiation. “I had to make sure even though I knew they were lying about having you hostage.”

I finished the piece, warily watching when his eyes dilated. When I asked, “Who else knows?” it took him several heartbeats to respond.

“Simon and Joel.”

He held out another wedge and I shook my head, “Naomi-”

“-is in protective custody.”

“Once you find her,” I muttered.

“Yes,” he shrugged. “Have another.”

“No, thanks.”

He growled, an honest-to-God rumble vibrated his throat, and I dropped the towel, startled when ice cradled my skull. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

I couldn't help it. “Do that I again,” I whispered.

He blinked then rolled his eyes and held up the orange instead. I ate it out of his fingers, watching his smile widen. Before I could say or do anything the doorbell rang. Jim's low, “hmmm.” made me tense but when he didn't, I listened for the bell again, then a series of knocks. A code. One of Jim's street kids with a living package, if I remember this correctly. Friendly.

Jim opened the door.

“Mr. Hobart?” I'm beginning to learn I don’t like surprises and didn’t bother keeping that bias out of my voice. The gas station owner and president of the Neighborhood Watch jerked back as if I’d punched him.

“Good morning, Blair.” The scrawny, stooped form fidgeted like an over-sized worm in a wool sock.

“Good morning,” I said, stepping back. “Come in, have a seat.”

Jim reluctantly opened the door wider, not that he really needed too. Mr. Hobart is one of those people who could hide behind a telephone pole but Jim’s manners have always been on the Southern Gentleman side.

I looked over Mr. Hobart’s shoulders at the kid lurking in the tunnel of greenery leading to the street. He caught Jim's signal and returned a gesture. Jim nodded again then closed the door. So Jim always knew where I am, had me watched, probably since I left Cascade.

I'll have to ignore that too or my head will explode. “Is there anything I can get for you, sir?”

The gas station owner is completely bald with skin as delicate and translucent as tissue paper, crisply wrinkling when he smiled at me, “No, thank you, and what did I say about that 'sir' nonsense? I’m just here as a messenger.”

I smiled until I noticed Jim angling his body, keeping me behind him. I pushed him out of the way. “Mr. Hobart, this is James Ellison, my new roommate. Jim meet my boss, Eric Hobart.”

“Yes, we’ve met.” Mr. Hobart’s head bobbed a couple of times but neither came closer for a handshake.

“Eh?” My brows ticked up in interest.

“I own this house, Blair,” Mr. Hobart sighed, narrow shoulders slumping even further down.

Oh, that's right. I'm going to have to find a pad and pen to write everything I'm Ignoring For Later do– Oh. _Oh._ Just like that, huh? My second life is over. Unfair didn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. “I have to leave, don't I?”

“I'm sorry, there's a car waiting on 8th AVE and Roxbury. Mr. Ellison will know. Go through the back door.”

“I see,” I looked over at Jim. “Do I need anything?”

“No.”

\-----

“Who are we running from?” I murmured.

Jim flicked a brief glance down at me as we stopped next to a massive rhododendron, its oval, glossy green leaves all but shrouding us. He removed an anti-flash, wraparound sun glass from inside his pea coat and slid them on. Coupled with a chunky knit beanie hiding his distinctive hairline he is instantly trendy. Between us he held his compact, black, police-issued SIG-Sauer P229, trigger finger on the guard. If he actually had to use it, and if the bullet is recovered, it would be very easy to trace.

“The bad guys.”

“Don't patronize me.”

“That's what I call them, Chief. I don't know who they are except they're not all American.” He took advantage of my porcupine impression to gently tug me into a cuddle and we ambled towards Roxbury, half a block away. It is early Spring and the early mornings still had a bite to it. “Now, hush, just look at me like I mean the world to you.”

 _You do._ Did he know? Probably. “You're lucky we're in Seattle and can get away with this.”

His answer is a lingering kiss on my forehead. His smile was starting to bother me. Too much teeth, skin stretched taut across his cheeks except where they wrinkled over his nose. I can't see his eyes but his brows are angled down towards his nose. He is scenting the air.

After a moment I did too. Out of solidarity? Who knows. I just sneezed and, laughing, Jim pulled out a handkerchief. My brows felt like they'd hiked into my hairline. Who is this dapper, easy-going man? I missed his ugly sweaters and the white socks he invariably wore with dark boots and trousers. I wiped my eyes, saying, “Oh man, thanks, allergies.” and wondered why I'm bothering to pretend.

“Hold on to it,” he murmured, “you'll probably need it again.”

Yeah. I stuffed the handkerchief into my coat pocket.

Someone is laying down fertilizer, the smell smoky with decay. The cool air is damp enough to keep it a cohesive scent, easily identifiable. Away from it the world is slightly metallic, a hint of cold ozone slowly being burnt off with the rising sun. Perfect for a romantic stroll.

We occasionally stopped, and I'd point at something or other, Jim would grab a flyer here and there. Just another couple, maybe house shopping or getting to know their neighborhood, murmuring nonsense to each other. The tree-shaded street would be gentrified in the next few years. Already there is a tiny boutique with a French name and a couple of tinier cafes with even cuter marketing popping up. The cracked and pitted sidewalk, instead of being ghetto, is beginning to look quaint with each mini upheaval gayly painted.

I almost lost myself in the fantasy until a landscaping truck with dark, scowling men crawled by. Jim ignored them. I rubbed my reddening nose against his chest. I never thought one day I would actively hope for homophobic slurs but compared to international kidnappers? Bring it on. We turned onto Roxbury and the truck sped off after stopping at a traffic light. I started breathing again.

Roxbury is a main arterial and busier now with nine-to-fivers on the road heading towards work. I hope this means there won't be a shootout in the middle of it. 8th is coming up.

“There's the new bakery we talked about.” Jim nodded towards the corner shop with its ornate double doors thrown wide open. Exuberantly styled in wide gray and pink stripes with large patterns in the lacy, white shape of doilies. It is very eye-catching. “Let's go in.”

“Okay.”

The color scheme is a lot tamer inside, mostly white with chrome and gray accents. And it smelled intoxicating, meltingly warm and sugary. Jim chuckled when my stomach loudly approved.

“Later,” he said, kissing me gently across the lips. I froze but he didn't seem to mind and by then...something...twirled out from a backroom in a froth of ponytails, petticoats and a prim white apron.

“Oh, good morning!” Praline – is the embroidered name – gasped prettily. “What can I get for you?”

Yes, that's an Adam's Apple but otherwise I would never have guessed the perky creature is male if the Peter Pan collar was higher.

“Two Caramel Fleur de Sel Macaron, please.” Jim's French rolled away with lazy perfection.

“I'm sorry but we're currently sold out of that flavor. We have something new coming up right now, would you like to go into the tasting room to try it?” Tinted lips curled and suddenly Praline didn't seem so...vapid. “Free of charge, of course.”

“Sure, why not,” Jim answered with a matching slice across his face.

“This way, please.”

As we followed I looked back out the window just in time to see several nondescript cars prowl past the shop. I shivered. Hang around a sentinel long enough and you'll pick up a few things but I didn't need Jim's senses to hear the high performance engines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Focus, Anchor = Guide, basically
> 
> \- Jim uses a SIG-Sauer P228 in most episodes but I upgraded it to the P229 because, well, this takes place in “modern” time and the P228 was discontinued in 1997.  
> http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Sentinel,_The_(TV_series)


	3. Chapter 3

My first warning was when Praline whirled around and said, “Strip, Sandburg. Pants first.” just as she, damned near magically, disappeared her apron, skirts and blouse. Someone handed her a towel then both wig and make-up came off.

Before then she'd been leading us through a short hallway which opened to a leafy, green courtyard studded with wrought iron furniture. A man in safety suspenders on the other side is adjusting several stripped awnings and another person, nearly hidden by their armload of cushions, with more piled on the tables. I stared up at the clear dome with its radiating ribs and colorful stained glass border.

“Those are the names of donors, sponsors and investors in this building and neighborhood,” Jim said.

“It's beautiful. Is yours up there?” 

“Cascade PD is. So is your mother.”

Naomi Sandburg, Philanthropist. It didn't work in my head. Charismatic activist free-loader, maybe. But humanitarian?

Unless this shop contributed in some major way to nuclear power resistance cells or sponsoring World Trade Center protests. If The Man is supposedly impinging on The Individual's rights then she was all over it. If instead donations goes towards useful applications in real life, say helping fund third world countries research into renewable energy sources or finding a way to help farmers in Africa learn how to use self-sustaining agricultural practices for their climate, economy and weather pattern? Not so much.

Actually, I take that back. Naomi would be out there, only she'd be picketing and claiming the farmers don't need no stinking Westerner's help. They got along _just fine_ without our meddling and will do so again if we'd just leave them alone. Never mind the facts or the research about the changing climate making their centuries old knowledge slowly become obsolete.

I didn't give voice to my cynicism. Okay, so, maybe Jim is right. My feelings towards my mother are definitely not neutral.

And with that thought I was _not_ ready for the command or impromptu strip show. My jaw dropped. Jim helpfully started unbuttoning my jeans while I stood there staring at Praline's external plumbing.

She, now very clearly a he, dropped nearly a foot to the floor when she stepped out of her heels, clad only in white briefs. Though it might be shock exaggerating my perception there is no denying she – he! – is supposed to be my decoy. Shoeless, we're the same height though he's much more slender. His shoulders were broadened by pads and, in addition to the Kevlar vest, his triangular torso is widened with more padding in the waist. Blue contacts and cropped, reddish-brown curls revealed after the wig was removed completed the transformation.

“Shit, Ellison! The alley!” My twin hissed, voice still androgynous, head snapping up. “Two on 7th, one coming up from Roxbury.”

I didn't need to be told twice despite the words not being directed at me. I was stark naked and handing my clothes over right there amongst hothouse orchids, thinking inanely, “Gonna have to sanitize these tables and chairs...”

Two sealed packages were thrown at me along with a box of wet wipes and a terse, “clean your feet.” from Jim. Used wipes and underwear were thrown into a janitor's bucket of bleach water which were promptly removed and replaced. The packages turned out to be clothes, all pull-overs, and zippered boots. Very convenient.

Jim was already stalking across the courtyard and I followed, diverting around a row of fatly potted plants, to another hallway. It is covered with picture frames and photographs. They weren't black and whites of anonymous people from a bygone era or posed, artsy shoots. Just candids about a modern family in full color. There, on vacation at the Grand Canyon, Grand Coulee Dam and road-tripping. There were school graduations with bright, hopeful smiles and proud grandparents holding screaming babies. The captions said so.

I blinked when a hot, stinging film covered my eyes. These people might not be living the life I wanted but they _have_ a life. Healthy and beautiful, and secure in their beds at night. Or maybe not, maybe they've got problems just like mine and are presenting a good face to the world.

No one turned though I know I'm not as stealthy as I'm trying to be, wiping the tears and snot dripping down my face.

\-----

We trotted right through the kitchen where the staff bustled about, armed with tools that wouldn't look out of place in an operating room and that made me think, “If this goes FUBAR, I'm sorry.” Irrationally I'm instantly amused when Jim's military lingo comes back to me. Fucked Up Beyond All Repair is a perfect motto for my life at this point.

Rounding several rows of industrial baking ovens we went through another door and finally hustled up some stairs. It couldn't be more than five minutes after I'd put on clothes but it felt like forever, each minute expanding like taffy as fear pebbled my skin. None of this will fool a good tracking sentinel for long but it's better than trailing my scent all over the neighborhood.

I'm trying not to think about Praline in my clothes walking out the way we came in with someone dressed very much like Jim.

As if reading my thoughts, Jim said, “Gary is an undercover Detective in the Seattle PD.”

“Sentinel?”

Jim turned slightly, one brow arching, “Do you think he can't do his job without being one?”

“You know that's not what I meant,” I snapped, and had the satisfaction of seeing dull redness creep over his face.

We walked past several doors in a painfully bland hallway then he opened one and ushered me in, closing it behind me. Now crouched behind some metal cabinets Jim checked his weapon again. I carefully looked around and, distantly horrified, stared at the opposite wall which is nothing but glass. On the floor were a couple of white noise generators.

“Do you know how popular that sentiment is right now?”

What? Oh, yeah, _that_. Disgust and anger brought the old Jim back temporarily. And technically I agree with him. Unfortunately humans are easily persuaded by herd mentality.

“At first they didn't want us but now they can't get enough of us.”

“Yeah,” I responded a tad too slowly, “actually I do. Pat and I used to pass the time debating everything but mostly philosophical and political stuff at the gas station.”

Jim stopped what he was doing to face me squarely. I borrowed The Latest, Most Efficient Way to Communicate courtesy of Jim's body language, and shrugged.

“Pat?”

“A homeless vet. This was his turf.”

Patrick Coleman was one of my prouder moments after leaving Cascade. I often thought if my political classes were taught by the guy I might have continued taking more subjects related to the modern world instead of going into anthropology and observing some of the most elusive and ancient people.

“We'd get into long, rambling debates about everything until I finally bullied him into joining a veteran support group.” I smiled remembering Pat's speechless acceptance and acknowledgement that it was okay to ask for help. Okay to take advantage of it. Unlike Jim. I flinched away from that thought. “Anyway, they helped him get into a shelter and then enrolled in the local college's Veteran's Continuing Education program.”

He smiled, “Still an advocate for the downtrodden, Sandburg?”

“Notice how you only use my proper name when you're annoyed with me?” Then I added, “Unless you only do it when you're serious.”

“You were leading me whenever I refer to you as Chief. I respect and admire you. I am not talking down to you whenever I use a nickname.”

“Not even 'My Little Guppy'?”

Jim looked over his sunglasses in disbelief, “You still remember that? Once, Sandburg. I used that once!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I waved it away. “Besides, you haven't told me what these mysterious kidnappers want with me.”

“They think you can enhance their sentinels.”

“How the hell did they come up with that conclusion? My dissertation was about how certain sentinels can produce fake results when their control is robust enough!”

Jim mutely held up his hands in a classic 'I surrender, officer!' pose, shaking his head.

“And where are we going now? Because if your plans involve anything South American, it's probably blown. You're too famous.” He didn't look like he was listening but I kept going, “Just let me call Jac-”

“It doesn't.”

Oh. What was that about the word “assume”? It makes an Ass out of U and Me? He crab-walked towards the window. Now that I'm not panicking as badly, I realized it's a fire escape. Traffic and vehicle sounds were muffled here, and I strained to hear anything going on.

Jim came back, face completely blank. “Jack Kelso?”

“Uh...”

Jim tilted his head, still expressionless, and seemed to come to a decision. “Jack was hurt-” He held up his palm before that completely filtered through my mind. “You can yell at me later. When I called to warn him, I ended up talking to Professor Stoddard. Jack has a concussion but he's awake, Eli says they're okay and they're leaving town. They're not in police custody either.”

Holy shit. “Oh, where-” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

“I don't know where they are, Chief. I was just asked to pass along the message.”

“I didn't think-” I stared at the P229 in Jim's hands. It is nothing like the organic tools I observed being used during my anthropological years. With its matte black coating, anti-slip grip and softened angles its intuitive design easily telegraphed its deadly purpose. “But...the Professor? Why's he caught up in this? And Jack wrote that tell-all book on the spook agency, he always joked he's too high profile to be messed with-”

My skull prickled, tightening at Jim's sudden laughter. It was a sharp, hoarse bark cut off immediately.

“The CIA isn't the only intelligence agency in the US.” Jim's twisted grin peeled further back across his face, making him look...inhuman. “And that was the kind of thinking that put a bullet through me. I'm relieved you kicked the wrong side.”

 _WHAT?_ I glared up at him. “You _lied_ to me? You said you broke a few ribs trying to catch them-”

“I obfuscated,” he corrected, “I never said _how_ I was injured, just that I was injured while chasing them.”

“Y-You-” I sputtered, and I couldn't stop despite sounding like a punctured tire. “Jackass!”

Jim seemed to mull it over, head satelliting slowly back and forth. “Takes one to know one, huh.” His grin evolved throughout the discussion and for a moment settled on goofy, lopsided with both brows raised. It's almost enough for me to forgive him.

“Oh, Gary and his men has three in custody,” he stated, amused at something with half a smile and completely ignoring the white noise generators.

My struggle renewed at the reminder of the sheer hatred I felt for one single moment in time when he'd looked at me square in the eye and answered Internal Affair's questions with, “No. I cannot reproduce the results Blair Sandburg has. My vision and hearing would spike out of range occasionally, but the consistent results are his fabrication.”

I'd been so proud when I discovered this man on my own. How honored and breathlessly humbled I felt when he finally allowed me to experience the full range of his abilities. I still remember the first time he casually displayed that range, no longer questioning or suspicious or demanding.

Blowing a shaky breath out, I was intending to say, “I can go home now!” Instead snark took over after the fear eroded enough of my brain functions and what came out was, “Awesome. I'm bait without my consent _or_ knowledge! I'm actually pretty sure that's illegal Detective Ellison.”

“Not anymore.”

Wait.

What?

“Which part?”

“The last part-” Jim suddenly held up a clenched fist. Stop. Caution. Probable danger.

Right, we'll figure this out later. I hunkered down tighter than a clam, fear pounding through my brain again.

We're bordered on three sides by 7th, Roxbury and 8th. The fire escape is in the alley connecting 7th and 8th, and the building hedging it is one floor shorter than this one. We had an almost clear view across its rooftop from this room.

I noticed this building going up a couple of years ago so we're basically in the tallest island within half a mile, even if some of that height is taken up by a dramatic glass dome. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Jim had snipers up there, successfully helping Gary make quiet arrests with the simple fact of their existence. No need to sho-

A sharp CRACK! kicked my eardrums in.

Oops, thought to soon.

I was flattened on the floor with Jim on top, both of us knowing it's a futile move yet unable to control the reflex.

Jim snapped, “Sniper fire. Stay!” and was up and out of the window.

Oh, he's _mad_ , I thought but I'm more bemused at how coherently weapons trivia from my time with Cascade PD crashed through my tranquil panic. Snippets like; bullets travel faster than the speed of sound. If we were targeted by an even half way competent sniper, we would've been hit _before_ we even heard the bullet's sonic boom.

And here's one reason I think Jim chose this place – leaving aside his professional paranoia. The room isn't even damaged, there's no hole in the glass. Taking into account the wind speed, position of sniper to target, rifle used, bullet caliber and the sniper's skills, being _unable to hit_ the inside of a room about half the size of the metaphorical barn-side could mean the sniper is an outrageously bad shot, currently recalibrating their weapon, or is on our side. Or who ever it is doesn't have a military-grade rifle.

Police sniper's rifles are usually smaller, more delicate and more accurate but aren't made for long distance shots. Military models can shoot up to a mile and a half, but at that range it's more luck than operator skills. Which means its a good bet this is one of Jim's men...or women. Somehow I'm not surprised to learn there are numerous statistics which prove women are better shots than men.

And me? I got told. I'm no longer gung-ho about these things. I stayed.

Usually this is smart. This is what you scream and pull your hair out for that strategically dirty, blond heroine to do in scary movies. Except she _never_ does which always leads to someone _else_ 's (probably your favorite character's) death because the dumb bitch couldn't follow simple, life-saving orders. Besides, I'll just get in the way, and Jim wouldn't leave me in this place if he didn't think I would be safe.

I should've remembered there's a reason why any spot I'm occupying becomes The Sandburg Zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Everything you ever wanted to know about the sniper's weaponary:  
> http://www.snipercentral.com/index.phtml


	4. Chapter 4

I fell asleep.

I'm not sure what woke me but I am fully awake in seconds. The muffled sound came again, multiple feet shuffling on carpet just outside the only door into the room. I stared intently at the shadows I can see in the gap between the floor and the door itself.

“Blair?”

I nearly scraped my scalp off trying to get out from underneath a desk, heart pounding painfully at the familiar voice.

“Blair, it's Joel.”

I don't know who or what I'm expecting but it wasn't Joel Taggert, former bomb squad Captain and, last I'd heard, still a senior detective in Cascade PD's Major Crimes Unit.

I scuttled as quietly as I could, as low as I could, to the other side, coming up against the metal filing cabinets. Sagging against them, I twitched when Joel spoke again.

“Blair? I know Jim told you to stay. He asked me to come by.”

“J-Joel?”

“Yeah, kid. Hobart's with me along with Detective Choi...er...Praline. Can we come in?”

The anger came back, igniting white hot and clearing out the fuzz in my head at hearing Mr. Hobart's name. I can't get past the strange look he'd shared with Jim. How they just re-arranged my life as if I'm just another game piece.

“Only you,” I replied. “I don't have a lot of trust right now.”

There's not much I can do except push the cabinets to block the door, but that's going to be academic if Praline is already in the room.

“I understand. I'm coming in alone then.”

“Slowly.”

Hesitation, then I heard the door handle turning and click. Joel came around the cabinets with arms up, making the already boxy cut of his 90s era jacket flare out even more. I haven't seen the big, dark man in several years. What relief I felt came out suspicious instead of happy, “What are you doing here?”

“Hobart and Ellison wanted me here, thinking I can referee.”

“Between them or between me and them?”

Instead of answering, Joel indicated a chair and I pulled it out for him. Either he believes he's safe or he has a death wish. His upper body is a perfect target, sitting as he did above the relative safety of the office desks paralleling the metal cabinets shielding me from the windows.

Repeating in my head, _'This is the tallest building within half a mile.'_ didn't seem to help any. No sniper, no matter how well trained or patient or devout in their religious beliefs, can defy the laws of physics to shoot up _and_ over the floor level.

Hm, has proven science and logic, or reason, ever won out against primitive fear? Maybe that'll be my next research topic.

Man, I need a new hobby.

“It's okay now,” Joel said, as if he understood what's going on in my head. I believe him, cutting short my increasingly fantastical Worst Case Scenarios. His wide, familiar smile is startlingly white against against his rich coffee bean skin. “You're always such a good kid, Blair.”

 _I try to be._ I smiled. Naomi did teach me if I can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all. No reason why I can't apply the philosophy to myself too.

He sat with a gusty sigh and a chuckle, “Ah, getting old is hard work.”

I looked him over. Joel has a naturally husky body type that'll never look thin no matter what he does, but he did look a little less rotund. “Have you been doing everything I suggested?”

“Oh yeah, I even took up that water aerobics you keep talking about. Done this body some good!” Joel winked, “And the missus don't mind joining me.”

“That's good.”

We shared a grin. It hurt. This is too much like being back in Major Crime's bullpen.

“Missed you a lot, kiddo.”

“I'm not a kid.” It was an automatic answer and I got the snorted laugh I expected. “And I missed you too.”

“Blair.”

And here it comes, I thought. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Why are we doing this here and now? What about Mr. Hobart and Praline out there?”

“Do you mind if they come in?”

After a moment I said, “Yeah, I do.”

“Alright, then I mind too.” Joel shrugged.

 _I see Jim's influence there._ I nearly cracked up at the sheer randomness of the thought. Joel leaned down and helped thump my back so I can cough up the giggles choking me.

“I'm confused,” Joel was saying, “I know the guys were too. Tell me what you thought happened when your mother released your dissertation. Why you thought you had to leave us behind.”

Because it was years ago. Because this is Joel asking. Or maybe because I'm so tired and don't want to hold it all in anymore, never letting anyone close or the truth out.

“I'm an embarrassment to Major Crimes. To Captain Banks. If I stayed his career would be over, the political fallout would be devastating. He has a duty to his men, Joel. He can't put his reputation on the line for just one man.”

“Simon does it everyday for Ellison.”

“I'm a civilian-” I shook my head, stopping his protest. “I know I was offered a job but it wouldn't be the same. You know that. I can't just slip my way back into Major Crimes or become Detective straight out of training no matter what kind of experience I had. And by the time I worked myself back up the ladder it's doubtful Captain Banks would still be there. It would be a completely different place.

“And as much as I loved helping give closure to the families and knowing I was putting the bad guys away, I was there for Jim. He was always my number one. What my mother did just revealed to me exactly how and why I'm _not_ ready for the other responsibilities, of-”

“Bullshit.”

I recoiled.

“You ran, Blair. You packed up and left us. That political stuff? Simon still went through it. In fact, had to go through it alone. If you were there you could've helped him answer the questions he couldn't. You weren't. Major Crimes was overhauled. All police procedure was raked over a fire, and you're right. Everything's changed. The things we would never have done before are now viable tactics. I'm retired now, I left a department I used to be proud to be a part of but no longer recognize.

“ _Look at me._ ”

I did, scared, with tears burning hot trails down my cold, cold face. I'm glad I couldn't make out how disappointed Joel is with me.

_Still a coward after all these years, huh, Sandburg?_

“I don't want your apology.”

I clenched my teeth, looked down. I didn't even know I was apologizing out loud.

“I know you believe it's not your place to say anything but because of the silence and the secrets Major Crimes had to go through all of Ellison's cases again. Thankfully his full capabilities actually makes it harder for any legal defense team to cry foul. We actually had some very sweet plea bargains piling on top of one another due to the defendants not wanting Ellison sniffing too deeply into their cases.”

I have nothing to say.

“It took us _this_ long to get everything squared away. Despite your junior position and your observer status, if you'd stayed it would not have.”

Joel's voice changed, lowered. Breaking. “I thought we were friends?”

“We are,” I finally whispered, “I'm sorry. I miss you guys a lot.”

“Me too, kiddo.”

Joel stood up and I realized I'd inched my way to my feet, heading for the door without conscious thought. He opened his arms.

“Come here.”

\-----

Joel's hugs are all encompassing. Secure. Safe. His are not like anyone else's, not Naomi's or Jim. Two of the closest people to me who I used to measure everyone else against. Joel never fails. Steadfast and honest, sweet and kind, his hugs are the physical equivalent of those words.

I pressed my face into his chest, saying, “I'm still angry.”

Joel's arms tightened even more. Letting me know he'll hold on no matter who else lets go or what's happening. After all, he's here now, isn't he?

“If you can't trust your mother or Jim, will you trust me?”

I'm not sure what the definition of trust is anymore. I trust that people will not keep their word so I always have contingency plans. When they don't show up on time or at all I don't get angry. I don't cast blame.

“I don't know.” My throat hurt so badly I could barely form the words. “I'm sorry.”

“No, shh, don't be.” Hands the size of my head patted my hair and broad fingers combed through the shortened strands. I'm thirty-two years old. I'd like to think I'm a quick study. I haven't felt this lost since I was sixteen and a freshman at Rainier University with a mother I call by her first name who was literally on the other side of the planet.

Joel had trusted me at one point, I remembered, enough to admit he was scared. This big man with his capable hands, steady and careful with each movement delicate and precise, hovering as they did over a coward's weapon.

When he failed he was man enough to recognize why, knew it wasn't because he was inadequate in any way and that it was okay to be shaken, to grieve, and to seek help. Knowing that I was a good enough friend that this man spoke his fear to me about how he'd lost his nerve, how he was unable to disarm that bomb, and didn't think he could do his job anymore, it had awed me. Humbled me.

“I don't know how you feel, Blair, or what you're going through but I'm not sitting on the sidelines this time. I want you to know that. No matter what's happening or what it looks like, we're not trying to hurt you.”

Joel possesses one of those voices which rumbles up from deep within his chest and I close my eyes, nodding into the vibration before he finished speaking.

“Good.” He gently pushed me away, holding me out at arm's length, “Hey there, look at me. I want your consent on this. Or if you don't want too, we'll leave right now. We'll find a way to get out of here, out of the US if that's what you want.”

“What about Jim?”

“What about him?”

“Wouldn't he be angry?”

“Who cares? Ah, you still do don't you?”

I blinked. Yeah, I still do. This sucks, because it's not even a revelation. Jim always mattered to me even when he's fucking over my life again. I looked away but Joel turned my face back up towards him.

Joel's nearly black eyes held mine. I noticed his rounded jowls are holding up pretty well despite his age and fat loss. He has to be in his sixties now but he didn't look _old_. Tired, puffy-eyed and worried but not haggard. His once salt and pepper hair is now mostly white but still crinkled tightly against his skull. The contrast against his dark skin looked pretty good.

I told him so.

Joel chuckled. “Still the charmer, aren't you?”

I smiled, shrugging.

Still chuckling he asked just as gently, “Can I ask Hobart to come in?”

I nodded, not quite trusting myself to verbally agree. I watched him go and sat abruptly down again. I lied. I'm not ready for whatever they want to tell me. I wanted to rush them, get past them and just keep running.

\-----

Seeing Mr. Hobart's bobbing head on that skinny, wrinkled neck again suddenly made me feel hollow. The anger is gone. Snuffed. I half-heartedly poked at the embers, feeling inexplicably betrayed. I don't want to stop being angry. It was the only thing I have left that's truly mine, by choice and companionship. Unlike people the ever present anger could be counted on to be there, to show up on time and on cue and raring to go.

Then Mr. Hobart came closer, raising a shaking arm, relief evident in his smile and loss of muscular control. I'm up and helping him into the vacated chair before I could stop myself.

I scuttled away when Praline took my place. I didn't catch the murmured words between them, not that it mattered. The cadence didn't sound English.

I watched my twin, still wearing my threadbare jeans and horrid sweater coat when his expression hardened. Long lidded eyes narrowed, informing me we weren't destined to become best friends. No longer blue, his eyes are a light brown, a trick of the light coming through the windows seemed to make them glow orange. It said if I hurt the old man he will personally drop kick me hard enough for my unknown father to feel it.

I carefully didn't look into those feral eyes again. Sentinel or not, there's no point in starting fights I can't win. Even with four years of intensive, self-defensive, anger management.

"Where are your manners, Gary?" Mr. Hobart asked mildly.

So, this is Gary. The sentinel. Maybe. It was just a flat thought, quickly shoved into the background. I used to be proud of my need to question, to find answers and study everything. I can't care now. I no longer have that luxury. Besides my track record doesn't inspire confidence since I fail more often than not when assuming things about Jim whom I thought I knew well.

"Gerald Choi," Praline finally replied, cutting a bow short in the last minute.

Huh.

Now I know where Mr. Hobart's odd bobbing came from. It was their attempt to fit into American society. If they remember too. I couldn't stop wondering what their greeting looked like if it was allowed to unfold naturally.

“Blair Sandburg.”

The only reaction I received is his lantern gaze flickering over me once. The rest of him was as still as a painting. If I hadn't seen him strip in front of me I would never believe he was Praline.

I guess it's a good thing I didn't extend a hand and be left hanging.

“I apologize for Gary's poor behavior, Blair,” Mr. Hobart said.

I shook my head, tension seeping from me. At least I never have to guess where I stand with Gerald. He doesn't like me and I don't care enough to make an effort. All good to know.

“We were asked to keep you company,” Mr. Hobart said into the silence. 

Gerald shifted. This close I can see his hair color is close to mine but the smooth, glossy texture wasn't, changing it just enough to matter.

I know I shouldn't be surprised except I am. Studies have shown again and again how simply having the same eye and hair color while dressed similarly is enough to fool people's perception. I've participated in enough university studies on brain activity and how it interprets signals from the eyes to _know_ people's memories are unreliable. Add in adrenaline with the chase, the time limit and the danger...but...it's still amazing.

Gerald and I look absolutely nothing alike. 

He has what forensic anthropologists calls Mongoloid facial features. With his high, broad cheekbones, shallow brow ridge and flat, frontal planes he's probably of East Asian origin. But someone somewhere contributed a long, beak-like nose giving him a striking profile when seen from the side.

That profile, right there, should've tipped off my mysterious pursuers. My own eye socket is a lot deeper with larger, rounder eye shape and a very pronounced brow ridge. My nose is a short, upside down L shape where the elbow is the low brow bridge between my eyes and tip rose sharply, upturning at the end.

How desperate were these kidnappers? If it is mostly sentinels hunting me they'd rely mainly on their noses. Smell imprints the most clearly and accurately in the human brain, after all. _If_ there were sentinels, were they so focused they'd completely discard the visual evidence? Or did they suspect my appearance will change since I did lived with a former Army Ranger and undercover cop?

I stared down at my dirty Converse on Gerald's feet.

“Blair?”

I flinched and looked back at Mr. Hobart. “Yes, sir?”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, sir.”

“You can respond with more than two words.”

I clenched my teeth tighter. It's not that I don't want too but I have a feeling I'd start demanding answers, becoming offended when I'm told the truth and start screaming and going on and on and...yeah. It's better for everyone that I'm impersonating a mime. Wait. Information is power, right?

“Who are you guys with again?”

“Well,” Mr. Hobart looked at Gerald as if he had all the answers. He probably does.

“I'm retiring.” Gerald's voice is startlingly deep all of a sudden, each word clipped off before he'd finished pronouncing them.

O~okay. And I should care why? To keep what tact I have left I closed my eyes to keep from rolling them. “Good for you.”

Even with my eyes closed I can see Gerald frowning. Why? I gave the correct response, I know I did. I completed the polite, commiserating ritual society forces its members to participate in, acknowledge, when confronted with a life changing decision. Especially when it's not their own.

“What do you know about guides?” Mr. Hobart asked.

“What I was taught in school.”

“Blair,” Joel echoed my sigh at the same time as Mr. Hobart's, “At twenty-two hundred Eastern Standard Time today there will be a joint operation between all the alphabet agencies and sentinels to bring in all registered guides.”

Bring in? What kind of euphemism is that?

“Huh.” I pressed my overheated forehead against the cool metal cabinets. “And here I was beginning to feel all special too.”

I know I should feel some interest in all of this but as I keep repeating to my conscience, I don't care anymore.

“You should.” That announcement made me squint painfully up at my doppelganger wondering a bit hysterically if he's psychic on top of everything else. “Jim personally asked me to be your escort until he gets here.”

Aaah. Got it. I recognize the conversational baiting tactic now. It's too bad I'm not in the mood for this game.

I said, very carefully, “I'm tired. I'm scared. All I want is to be by myself again. I don't care who pulled the rifle trigger. Don't care why either. Don't care about anything except to know what you want. Then I can leave or you can leave, again, don't care, just so long as I can be alone.”

“Jim is retiring after this case. He's sold his services to us. Sold you too. In return we protect both of you. No, I lied, actually it's just yo-”

“Gary!” Mr. Hobart snapped.

“He asked! I even used small words in relatively short sentences!”

“You're not the good guys, are you?” I interrupted, popping one eye open to lazily assess them. I watched Joel rub his face hard, struggling with something.

Gerald cocked his head enough for me see the tiny transmitter in his ear. So, not a sentinel? He noticed my scrutiny and nodded. Freaky. “You are now private property. Ours to be exact. Breathe, Sandburg.”

Mr. Hobart's face is mottled red and white. Did mine look like that too? Joel found a desk fan from somewhere and turned it on. I just leaned back against the cabinet, trying to catch my breath. And not cry anymore.

“It's _not_ that bad,” Gerald muttered, checking Mr. Hobart's pulse...who glared a promise of Slow Death By Dismemberment at Gerald's fussing...who continued airily, “We have excellent benefits and our health insurance is the best in the business, but our funeral package is even bet-”

“ _'-better than the competition.'_ was what you're going to say, right?” Damn, my timing is good! I had to swallow several times before I managed to get that out though. “I mean, if I can be used to lure my kidnappers out without my consent and that's legal and shi – um, whatever. This is...I dunno...kinda like transfer of ownership, right?”

“No, but you get brownie points for preciousness.”

Gerald's sarcasm slid off of me. I don't need or want his approval. In another life I might have. In that lifetime I probably would have liked him too.

“Blair,” Mr. Hobart hesitated, then, “Jim is doing this for you.”

How selfless of him.

“You've seen what's happening, heard about all the changes after 9/11. This is one of them. Guides are now considered wards of the state but if they have a written, notarized contract with a corporation, a guardian or a sentinel they will not be taken. All Jim needs is your agreement to be his guide then we can finalize the contract.”

I'm reduced to a series of autographed papers. But wasn't that what my little mountain of diplomas and reports and dissertation proved?

“He's still going to be doing the same thing but as a private contractor to the city of Cascade. I know it doesn't seem fair but, Blair, we offer both of you what the government cannot. Autonomy. Stability. A safety net.”

 _'Jim seems perfectly stable in his detective job.'_ I wanted to point out with no small amount of _'WTF is this? Seriously. What. The. Fuck. I don't even get a say?! How about a vote? I swear the last time I checked I lived in a democracy. Fuckin' sentinel! Fuck you, Jim!'_

I clenched my teeth until they squeaked for mercy.

“We are founded by guides and run by guides, unlike other companies whose management are either normals or are controlled by sentinels.”

Gerald took over. “This is show-and-tell, Blair. We had to convince your sentinel we can take care of you when he's away or when, inevitably, he fails, leaving you behind, leaving you vulnerable.”

And you too, Gerald. That'll be on my Happy Birthday card to you.

I blinked rapidly and when that didn't work, pressed the heels of my hands viciously into my eyeballs. This is really happening. Get over it. Just....adrenaline crash, I comforted myself. I'll figure everything out later.

I felt Joel's palm against my head again and I leaned into it. You want stable? You should find a way to clone Joel. Bastards.

Raggedly I asked, “Where's Jim?”

“He's the senior officer on this case and has to do most of the paperwork.”

Joel this time. Neutral response to a needy question. I'm grateful. I showed it by pulling my carefully constructed silence in around me.

But Gerald wasn't done. “We arranged for Ellison to privately retake all of the tests again. You are no longer a fraud as of today, Noon Pacific Standard Time. He's finally able to come out of hiding.”

I looked past all of them to see the early Spring sun break out of the morning clouds again. The long, scrawling shadows from half-naked tree limbs crawled their way across the room, covering Gerald's body, changing him outwardly.

“Don't-” Gerald's smile is thin and ugly. “-you want to be there with him?”

I lied. Seems I have one more thing to say after all.

Gerald is screaming. Not in volume. But with each word, with false cheer, in mockery and rigid stance. It hit me where I recognize it. Myself. He's grieving, and has been for a very long time.

“You're related to Danny Choi."


	5. Chapter 5

“He was my cousin. Our parents-” Gerald looked out the windows and I stared intently at my Converse. We were both blinking hard. “They died trying to get us to America. We were raised together.”

And now Danny's dead too. Died the night Jim officially made me his Ride Along, shot by a sniper as Jim walked back to me with the information he'd come to collect from the undercover cop. Shot dead right in front of my eyes. I never had the chance to actually _meet_ Danny.

Has it been eight years since?

That moment was just a series of impressions; stinking, heated garbage, slick metal; lights coming in at odd angles and thick, foggy darkness; burnt rubber. Then there was the pleased grin Jim wore after they were done posturing. They'd hugged like long lost brothers. Jim saying goodbye to Danny. His back to the smaller Asian man when that man fell, black hair rippling blue in the light, boneless, to the dirty asphalt.

Despite not being a stranger to seeing death, whether inflicted violently with purpose during aboriginal territory disputes or by random DNA chance, Danny's death still hit me hard. That one act fueled my need to understand, to make sense of a world I wasn't prepared for when I coaxed Jim into letting me study him. Danny has somehow become just as important to me as he, apparently, still is to Jim.

“I knew you looked familiar,” I rasped, hacking out a miserable excuse for a laugh. Joel handed me a bottle of water. I nodded my thanks.

Gerald didn't reply. His hair is short enough to where I can see the veins pop in his temples.

“We were invited to the private funeral ceremony at Grandma Choi's house where Jim and I met Gerald,” I said, mostly for Joel's benefit.

Met as in Gerald, who'd appeared out of nowhere, had decked Jim a solid one while screaming, _“You promised to protect him! You promised!”_ But that's too personal to say out loud.

It was a sight. Gerald was not only shorter but dressed in Buddhist mourning white, looked incredibly frail. It took at least five men to yank him off and literally carried away, still screaming. His hair was darker then, thick and straighter than a waterfall, whipping like black tassels around his face.

Jim's response to some of the mourners anxiously asking if he was okay was, “I deserve it.”

To which an observing Buddhist monk (Who was smoking!) replied, “ _Don't_ be ridiculous. Who do you think you are? Only Danny is responsible for his actions and decisions.”

Ah, the gob-smacked look on Jim's face. It never occurred to him that he was being arrogant in thinking he had the right to feel responsible for anyone but himself. It wasn't like he could argue with a monk either. I was just relieved I wasn't the one who had to call attention to that kind of idiotic, god-complex thinking.

Then Jim had to go and nearly die a few times. Suddenly I knew exactly how it felt. Karma really is a bitch.

“I didn't know Danny personally but I remember him,” Joel was saying. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

Gerald's nod is a series of stuttered jerks, his curls caught the muted sunlight, breaking my reverie. “Danny died doing what he loved. That's what I choose to remember.”

“I like that.”

Gerald slid a wary look my way then nodded an acknowledgement. Brief truce over, we went back to our corners.

\-----

Jim found us sitting quietly, mostly staring off into space except Mr. Hobart who was crackling away on a laptop.

He walked closer to me, seeming to wait for something. I let him.

Then, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to know where?”

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“A Buddhist temple.”

I rolled my eyes and he smiled faintly. “Very informative.”

“I try.” His response is equally dry. “Are you angry?”

“I was.”

“Will you be my guide?”

“If I became your official guide back when we first met would any of this happened?”

“Probably.”

“Just the way the world is turning, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“It has nothing to do with my dissertation?”

“No.”

I nodded. I just wanted someone to say it out loud. I know thinking it's my fault and I'm somehow to blame for an entire country's social ailment is a monument to my ego but there is a nibbling doubt. There probably always will be. Like a child _knowing_ it's their fault their parents are divorcing. No amount of adult therapy or those same parents assuring the child will ever completely erase them.

“You should know I never registered as a guide with the American Council for Sentinel Studies,” I replied cautiously, “I was never formally trained by anyone the ACSS would acknowledge.”

“I know,” Jim smiled. “I wondered about that meditation stuff, it was more similar to training in the military than anything the ACSS had.”

“Nepal,” I murmured, “taught me a lot of interesting things about guide and sentinel dynamics.”

Over there Guides are considered holy for one thing.

They were convinced I was a Guide, big G and all, but they didn't teach “guide-ing”. Instead they lived their lives and even with their internal political upheaval they still found the patience and time to cheerfully encourage me to do exactly what I've been doing. Be a nomad, explore. 

When I persisted they struggled to put something instinctual into words, “Do not be fearless. That is the thinking being's hubris. Fear has a reason for existing. It is an important teaching tool. Acknowledge it, learn, but don't let it cripple you. Always be curious, experience everything at least once.”

Well, I failed the fear test spectacularly.

I didn't think guides were genetically different, the way sentinels are. Maybe they weren't. Maybe it's like melanoma with the sun's ultraviolet rays, altering DNA and growing spontaneously when touched by a sentinel.

Jim watched me. When I met his eyes, he said, “I want to be with you.”

Alright. I took a deep breath, “Yes, I'll be your guide.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm not sure what to do.” I rubbed my face, clenching a fist into my hair.

“What you've always done.” Jim shrugged. “That's always been good enough for me, no matter what I tended to say.”

“Blair,” Mr. Hobart called out.

“Yes, sir.”

“We have to go to Seattle's ACSS hub to register you in person.”

 _Seriously?!_ I nearly shouted but managed a strangled, “Why?” There has to be a good reason or Jim wouldn't stand there without blowing a vein.

“You'll be our excuse to get as many sentinels and guides out as we can.”

I appreciate Mr. Hobart's candor but I wished he'd give more details. Like, you know, an actual strategy to get shit done instead of statements of intent that doesn't tell me _anything_.

My headache is back with a vengeance and a chainsaw, buzzing through my head, threatening to lobotomize me out of action. _Dehydration will do that_ , one of my internal voices pointed out snidely. I opened the water bottle somewhat listlessly. If it took longer than normal with shaking hands and no coordination no one offered to help. I nodded to myself. Good, no pity.

After a long swig to lubricate my brain cells I asked, “How are you going about this rescue thing?”

“Inside help,” Jim said.

“Yeah?” My brows jerked into my hairline. “How about some details?”

What about transportation to get people out? I know we have a time limit but _what is it_? What about back up? How are we getting out of the city? We'd be shit out of luck if the Naval shipyard decides to get involved. It may not be a straight line from Seattle across Puget Sound but it's close enough at only half an hour away by ferry ride. Which probably translates out to five minutes of freedom, maybe, at government speed when they feel threatened. In that time Fort Lewis in Tacoma can easily scramble jets and be over Seattle's airspace before we'd finished farting something out.

And of course ACSS had to put their freaking headquarters right across from the Pike Place Market, a beloved Seattle landmark, number one tourist destination and busier than Hell on Halloween every freaking day of every freaking week.

“My role is to convince the sentinels not to go along with this stupidity,” Gerald said, obnoxiously cheerful, “and I'm very convincing. You? No matter how brave or professional your Observer record paints you out to be, you're a liability. But since you're Jim's prob-Guide I'm guessing he has a game plan for you.”

Incredulous, I snapped, “Walk in and walk out is not a good one.”

“Half of the sentinels in Seattle are minorities,” Gerald slapped back. “And the other half are either married to one or are good friends with us.”

Hands came down on my shoulders, grounding me and my fingers convulsively grabbed on.

“Blair,” Joel said softly, “I'm descended from Southern slaves.”

I understood immediately where Joel was headed with that opening volley.

“You know damned well we are not going to let this happen to another group of people. Not without another war, and _it will be a war_ , not just words and posturing.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“We never lost our vigilance. I was very young but I was there during the Fifties marching for my civil rights, Blair,” Joel's voice thickened. He had to pause but everyone else stopped what they were doing to listen. “Of the eighteen sentinels in Seattle, seven of them are Black Americans and nine of the fifteen in Cascade are Blacks or mixed-race. Of the twenty-five registered guides, ten consider themselves Blacks.”

Joel's voice held steady when he listed all the things his family and the African American community is doing, “Guides are being smuggled out of the country or being hastily registered as belonging to various corporations. Maybe it's the wrong thing to do. I hope we're doing this for no reason, that this is just another stupid political move. Maybe there's a better way but right now this is the best we can do.”

“Oh, man, I'm sorry. This is so messed up.” Continuous stress brought back old speech habits I'd tried so hard to replace in the past years. 

“What are they calling this, whatever this is, happening at..er...” I stumbled. What's twenty-two hundred? I hate military time. “...ten tonight?”

“A joint training exercise,” Jim replied blandly.

I started laughing but when no one joined in I choked it off, “No way.”

“Yes.” The soft reply didn't need any decorations to make a point.

“I just...aw, man! Joel, what about your family? I totally didn't even think about you, I'm sorry! I know your youngest is a guide. Shit, what about Daryl! His guide?”

I looked at Jim, trying to untangle my thoughts long enough to ask if he was out of the country.

“Calm down, it's okay, Blair,” Joel said, handing me another water bottle. “Daryl is an undergraduate in Melbourne come this Autumn. He's already there with Yvonne as Megan's guests. Simon should be back any day now. He was down there helping them adjust and signing documents. And my girl is a plane hop away in Victoria B.C..”

“I should've done this earlier,” horror strangled my words down to a whisper. I slumped back, shaking. “There are people I need to call.”

“Tell me and I'll find a secured phone,” Joel offered. “We can't have you back on the grid now.”

“Pa-Patrick Coleman,” I stuttered, thoughts shattering into different directions again. “He's a sentinel, severely disabled with PTSD.”

But still trying to be something he can no longer cope with. Would the government try to retrain him? His senses are still active and there's nothing wrong with his arms or legs.

Mr. Mercedes Man was Pat's temp guide when the veteran was at the sentinel rehabilitation center. He'd disappeared until two years ago when Mr. MM alerted me to the homeless bum's real identity after seeing him prowling around the neighborhood. Asking if I would keep a kind eye out for Pat.

Suddenly, for the first time, I wondered if Mr. MM didn't single out the gas station to visit every morning because I was there. It is a disturbing thought. But he's a guide. Would he willingly work to enslave himself? No. I refuse to be ugly like that, he deserves a chance just like everyone else. I just don't have a way to warn him. I don't have his cell number, only his license plate.

“That's good too,” Joel said. “I'll send someone I trust.”

“Three of Mrs. Mayberry's descendents are guides, two in training. Her entire family will be torn apart.” She is so proud of them.

“I've got her, Blair,” Mr. Hobart said. “She's already on her way back to Hawaii with her family. We have confirmation that Hawaii and Alaska are point-blank refusing these orders.”

I nodded my thanks, closing my eyes in relief. “Okay.” I kept listing names, details. Anything I can remember. Naomi, damn it. She has to have gone underground by now. I hope.

I couldn't stop shaking. Jim didn't ask permission, just wrapped his arms around me and gently covered my exposed ear, pushing my head against his heart. I am surrounded by him, the sure, steady beats and the sound of blood rushing through veins.

I watched Joel quickly put together some equipment and Gerald wordlessly helping.

After taking a moment to gather the tattered remains of my dignity, I muttered, “So.” and pulled Jim's palm from my head far enough to hear myself. Making sure I'm making some sense, at least. “Do I just walk in there and...”

“Act normal,” Mr. Hobart advised.

“Just do as I say,” Jim said at the same time.

I blinked when they looked at each other then shrugged simultaneously.

“What he said,” they tossed out at the same time.

“Not helpful,” I replied.

\-----

The car ride is surprisingly uneventful.

I glanced at Jim from under my lashes. He was sitting opposite from me along with Gerald trading papers and murmuring about court proceedings. Joel was to my right, also busy with more paperwork. Mr. Hobart sat in front seat with the chauffeur.

I have a personal chauffeur. I'd stopped dead when I saw what he'd be chauffeuring me in.

“Whoa...” I'm not gonna lie. My jaw dropped to the asphalt at the highly visible, moving target. “Ostentatious, much?”

It couldn't be called anything but an Automobile. The capital A is mandatory and, oozing antique prestige, the word sleek couldn't find a seat anywhere on its rounded, voluptuous body. It made the dirty, narrow alley look like Fifth Avenue and nearly all of the neighbors had come out to gawk at it.

“All guides rides in these if they aren't with their sentinel.”

“Company perks?”

“Yes.” Mr. Hobart grinned.

“Why can't I drive myself?”

“Other than the fact that you don't have a car?” Jim raised a brow.

“But, that's mine right?”

“You wouldn't know how to handle it correctly.”

Being told I can't drive by the man who put more police cars in the junkyard than the entire precinct combined is a little upsetting.

Mr. Hobart chuckled, “Jim's not allowed behind the wheel either.”

"Score one for Seattle's innocent bystan-No!"

Jim had me in a head-lock, loudly demanding, "What? Can't hear you.”

“Jim! Stopstopstop!” It came out muffled due to my face being shoved into his armpit.

“Nope,” Jim replied mournfully, “even sentinels can't escape old age. My hearing is not as good as it once was. Say that again?”

“Uncle!” I shouted when he continued polishing his knuckles on my skull. “Please, UNCLE!”

“Shall we?" Jim said after releasing me into the cool interior of the car. I immediately scrambled to the far side.

From where I'm cowering, holding my sore head, I heard Joel's grave, “Yes.”

\-----

It took fifteen minutes to get into Seattle proper using 1-5 North. We headed onto surface streets where sounds were oddly muffled and morning traffic abruptly disappeared as road blocks were removed. Someone handed bags of something to Mr. Hobart who then passed it to Jim. With road blocks replaced behind us, we continued through Little Saigon, past Uwajimaya anchoring one city block where the person ran back into, and through an International District I no longer quite recognized.

In the hazy morning light shaded by towering glass and steel eerily silent, efficient groups of people were putting up banners, streamers, red paper lanterns and firecrackers in thick bunches. The workers themselves wore mostly black and the occasional cry is like a call from the dead, hollow and demanding. 

At one intersection I spotted the tapered, feathery tail of something which had wrapped its long, sinuous body around an entire city block.

As we drove by I counted ten luxury brand vehicles making up the creature with seven military-type, boxy vehicles making up the head. All seven sported heavily stylized horns in the shape of crowns and covered in scales ranging from the size of my head to my hand, running up along all vehicle's spine to join up with the tail. It looked quite at home amongst modern asphalt and fantastic, oriental architecture. 

It was one single float.

“Is that a dragon?” Jim waved a Vietnamese sandwich at the cars making up the body. Then he handed it to me.

The rice-flour baguette bread is stuffed with different cold-cut pork meats, pork liver pate, carrots, cucumbers and spicy, salty, tangy sauce, and one end is instantly in my mouth.

“No,” I replied, spraying everyone with bread crumbs, “a representation of Mucilinda, I think.”

From Jim's confused but resigned expression, I swallowed, quickly adding, “He's a king of the Naga, a race of mythological beings who have human torsos ending in a snake's tail or, if you've ever been to Southeast Asia, a King Cobra.”

“Isn't Mucilinda a guide title in Asia?” Joel asked, digging into what I think is orange chicken with steamed rice.

“Yep.” Surprised and pleased, I continued telling the short story, “It's in honor of Mucilinda, who appeared without being asked or asking anything in return, to shield the Gautama Buddha from seven days of earth pulverizing storms using only his seven heads. When it was over he turned into a human, bowed before the Buddha and became a Guide with Buddha's blessing.”

“Admirable,” Jim replied.

“Yeah.”

“Never heard of him.” He frowned at his Phad Thai. I wondered how creatively it had insulted him. “Wait, Buddha was a sentinel?”

“No,” I laughed around my sandwich. “But I guarantee you've seen Mucilinda. He's just never credited. If you noticed a gigantic King Cobra in movies, sculptures and paintings, often serving literally as the Buddha's chair and umbrella then you've seen him. He might only have one head though. Granted he's seen mainly in Theravada Buddhist traditional art.”

“Without ever being acknowledged, huh?”

“Yep.”

Jim finished his inspection, took several bites, swallowed some water, then, “How very Buddhist.”

“Yep.”

Through the privacy window dividing the chauffeur from us Mr. Hobart watched me solemnly. We glided to a purring crawl as more road blocks were removed quickly from our path. I turned around, wondering if I'm being conceited and he was only looking back at the melancholy magic of the District we're leaving behind.

Something skittered up my spine. Washington State actually has a resident Mucilinda, one of only three in the US. Not allowed to leave the temple grounds, which are built specifically to accommodate each Mucilinda, Rainier U often sent a representative as a courtesy if the university was doing anything involving Buddhism or Asian guides. I was chosen to go once. I'd forgotten that.

The skittering became claws, dragged slowly back down, chilling me to the core. How did I forget an experience like that?

Wait a minute. Early Spring? I thunked my head against the bullet-proof side window, groaning, “Oh, man, no, no, no. This is Vesak Week, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Mr. hobart responded.

Of course. Congress would pull this stunt amidst one of the most important and biggest multi-national Asian holidays celebrating the teachings of a faith that's become synonymous with non-violence and peace.

Even if it wasn't an official American holiday or even well known outside of Asian cultures, why would any sane government risk it? Seattle and Cascade, hell, the entire West Coast of the United States has whole neighborhoods, basically satellite cities unto themselves, and there are _several_ in San Diego, Frisco and LA, where a child can be born and never have to speak or know a word of English or Spanish to get by. Not to mention the sprawling “Chinatowns” and “International Districts” in most of the major Eastern cities where the seat of powers are.

Good job, Mr. President. Piss off a good chunk of the population on Buddha's b-day.

“I wonder how many minority groups _aren't_ going to be offended when morning breaks.”

“The current head of the National Rifle Association is a guide,” Gerald murmured, “and female.”

Joel chuckled grimly.

We continued sedately over and down Seattle's steep downtown hills towards the slate-blue Elliot Bay and 1st AVE.

Prominent signs pointed towards major city and tourist landmarks with little, boasting blurbs. Puget Sound Ferries, the largest passenger and automobile ferry fleet system in the country. Fremont, hippie now hipster central of Seattle, home of the Fremont Troll. Pioneer Square, America's original Skid Row. Pike Place Market, going strong even after more than a hundred years old and the Soul of Seattle. The Space Needle at the Seattle Center. All green with white reflective lettering and cute, easily identifiable images accompanying them.

The directions to the American Council for Sentinel Studies is in stark black and white.

Something gleamed from the corner of my eyes. We'd picked up an entourage.


	6. Chapter 6

The American Council for Sentinel Studies in Seattle occupies two buildings. The one facing The Market is four stories, the one facing 2nd AVE is six stories. Bigger and bolder modern high rises loomed over the nearly one hundred year old structures. Only now were they being reinforced to withstand a long overdue earthquake from the Cascadia fault line.

Our entourage is part construction crew, part asbestos inspection crew and all business. They didn't follow us into the underground parking or acknowledged us in any way I can recognize.

“You watch too many movies,” Gerald answered when I asked if they were with us.

My brows tried to hike off of my face. “Have you looked at your _life_ lately?”

Gerald's narrow-eyed sneer accompanied a, “Your fault.”

“What?!” Now that's just mean.

But because Gerald twitched and closed his mouth so hard I heard his teeth CLACK together from across the car, I turned, ducking, looking around in confusion.

Oh.

I _felt_ Jim's annoyance through three layers of clothing, the Automobile and - turning to sneak a look at Jim's face - his sunglasses. Without a word, he turned away.

Joel said wistfully, “I wonder if he'll teach me how to do that? I'm a doormat with the grandkids...”

\-----

We didn't bother with elevators. Jim didn't trust them not to ”accidentally” malfunction. Neither did he ask if Mr. Hobart can navigate the stairs, until I saw the escalators. We rose slowly into the front lobby; an interesting experience.

I shamelessly watched Jim like a coal miner with a canary. _Any_ negative signs from our imposing, six foot early warning system and we're bolting. Gerald for the nearest fire alarm, Mr. Hobart and Joel shouting, “Fire!” so Jim and I can disappear into the confused, scared crowd. Hopefully to meet later at a predetermined rendezvous point. A tactic I'd suggested and was surprised when it was adopted with a few tweaks.

Which would only work if Jim did not zone out from over-stimulation.

The entire lobby is luminous in the sunlight. Surrounded by gleaming glass windows, exposed brick walls, brushed steel and liquid metal details, all of which anchored by wide, wooden planks. Where plush, jewel-toned Persian carpets didn't cover them I can actually see my reflection in the polished floor.

The waiting areas are dotted with leather clad couches, desks and tables bolted together from what looked like warehouse scraps though a few seemed to float in the air. (All glass?) Armchairs were upholstered in thick corduroy, each groove in the fabric so deep and lush even I can see the shadows thrown by them from where I stood. Texture seemed paramount, rich and layered.

“What the...” I breathed. Are they purposefully trying to induce seizures in the sentinels? Stunned, all I could do was turn in a circle, gawking.

The only clear color came from a tight grouping of what I immediately recognized as Coast Salish First Nation canoe paddles suspended right smack in the middle of the lobby. Delicate shapes which morphed into bold patterns were painted in true-blue against the pale wood grain in the Duwamish tribal style. They mimicked a mirage, the eerie effect reinforced by dripping the paddles unevenly from the ceiling, seeming to shiver and warp in the air.

Jim simply adjusted his wrap-around sunglasses by tightening a band I hadn't noticed before securely around his head, and kept walking, completely unaffected.

“Crazy-prepared,” I muttered, “thy name is James Joseph Ellison.”

“Only-” Jim held up a wagging finger, and I stared at the back of his head, “-if the scenario does not involve acts of God and/or Nature.” He turned. “Everything else?” Smiled. Teeth everywhere.

“You think they're separate forces?” Talk about random tangents. “I mean, uh...” _Get with the program, Sandburg, and stop being such a fruitcake._ “Never mind.”

Joel laughed and I turned, intending to glare at him but instead walked straight into Jim's back.

Who'd stopped dead, and didn't even budge when I bounced off of him. Joel caught me. Since he's bigger and taller too, I couldn't see past either of them to figure out what's holding up traffic. When Gerald and Mr. Hobart completed the shield around me I realized I might not want to know.

Screw that. This is _my_ life.

“Hey, what's up?”

Jim didn't answer me since I'm neither, “Father.” nor, “Steven.”

“Jim.” Steven's timber and tone is almost identical to Jim's. Hearing it coming from across the lobby is even weirder.

I wiggled around Jim for a look. Steven Ellison is one cool customer, was my first thought. Maybe it was the all-silver accessory against a sharply tailored grey-on-grey, three-piece suit or just the heavy silvering in his dark hair. Even his eyes looked more grey than blue and compared to Jim whose lightly gilded skin is surprising in this season, Steven is all pale, blue-blooded business elite.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Steven was saying.

Jim tilted his head. “Why wouldn't I be?”

A dark eyebrow winged up, the expression so similar to Jim I did a double take. “You were shot.”

“I was?”

When asked if I've always been this abrasive, I answer honestly; No, but I learned from the best - How To Be A Suspicious Asshole by James “Jim” Ellison.

“The hospital called us.”

“Try again.” Jim pulled out his P229. _No, no, no, no, Jim, what are you doing?!_ “Blair is my emergency contact, beneath him would be Simon. No one else.”

“I'm not here for you, James,” William Ellison interrupted Steven's, “Captain Banks-”

I flinched. I didn't even see Jim's father until that moment.

“I love you, Father, Steven.” I stared at Jim's finger tapping on the trigger guard. “We are getting along well these days.”

As threats went that's actually pretty effective. William Ellison was sitting in a wing-backed chair, partly turned away from us but now leaned forward. His skin, already pale, tightened and whitened further when he heard Jim. White haired and withered the Ellison patriarch is very delicate these days. He shrank into the chair, collapsing in on himself.

“Jim,” I murmured, pressing against his back. “Please...”

_Whatever this is, man, don't do this to your father. Don't do it. Nothing is worth that kind of pain again. Don't you remember?_

The Ellison's had, sort of, started repairing their relationship a year before I left Cascade. Until then Jim refused to have anything to do with his family or the family name for nearly fifteen years.

I never knew my father. I think I miss him. Not sure, since I don't have a reference point. But seeing Jim with his own father made me think about it. Not enough to actually go and find said sperm donor but just enough for me to meddle in someone else's affairs. Yeah, that's all.

“Please, Jim,” William whispered. “Don't do this to Blair.”

Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. “Do what to me?”

“Blair,” Steven called out.

“Ye-Hey! What the hell, man?”

Jim held up an arm, blocking me from moving forward.

“Blair,” Steven repeated, “What did Jim tell you about these men you're with? Think. What do you know about Gerald Choi or Eric Hobart? What did they tell you about their company?”

“Nothing,” I said slowly. Because, seriously? “I didn't really ask.”

“Maybe you should,” Steven nodded at his older brother. “Ask them, Blair.”

“Don't sign with them, please, Blair,” William said.

“They are not American based,” Steven said.

“Considering the rumors I keep hearing about what America plans on doing at seven PM our time tonight...” I trailed off, chilled, then shook myself. “I'm thinking this is a good thing.”

“They are a religious sect. They think you're some kind of reincarnated holy man. You will be taken away, locked up.”

“No way.” I shook my head. Ridiculous. “I can't be a Mucilinda. I'm not Buddhist for one thing.”

“Neither is Gerald.”

Huh? How did we get from...What is this? I blinked up at Joel who'd spoken. “How do you know?”

What was he doing in white then, during Danny's funeral ceremony? It wasn't a suit. Come to think of it was it a Buddhist thing or just an Asian thing? I remembered the home-made, boxy cut style. That was the point in some Asian cultures, to wear a homely piece of white clothing made for the occasion to signify the act of cleansing, putting aside all materialism for that moment. Honoring the memory of the dead without the trappings of the living.

“Hobart talks about him all the time,” Joel answered. “He is very proud of Gerald except for that detail. Gerald converted when he came to America.”

“Gerald Choi is Protestant but is confirmed to be the new Mucilinda,” William Ellison stated. “Jim knows this. He believes you'll be safe with them. As one of their protected, living idols.”

“Jim?” Gerald was instantly forgotten. How To Completely Derail Blair Sandburg. (In a nutshell; Mention one mercurial sentinel detective from Cascade city’s Police Department in Washington State.) That'll be my next book title, right after How To Kill The Sentinel Whom You Are Heads-Over-Heels In Love With For Using Your Obfuscating Skills Against You. “Jim? You-”

-wouldn't do that to me. He didn't look at me. I knew then his father was telling the truth. I looked back at William and Steven. “But-”

A big black pistol appeared, pointed at Jim's temple. Held across my face at eye level. Held steady in Joel's hands with finger _on_ the trigger.

“Blair,” Joel said, “get behind me.”

I did, numbly and dumbly.

“These are forty-five caliber bullets, Jim. This close it _will_ put you down and _keep_ you down.”

“Jim?” My breath hitched, “I don't understand.”

“You will be safe.” I didn't expect an answer and jerked back at his quiet response.

“What? Why?” _How could you think this is okay? Any of this?_ I can't even say it out loud. This is crazy.

“I never lied to you,” Gerald said.

I've always hated that argument. An omission is still a lie. The lazy person's explanation.

It still didn't change the fact that Gerald _did not_ lie. I just misunderstood. Or something. _Yeah, you're_ something _, alright. Ostrich sounds about correct._ My internal voices are having a ball. Then again what did I _think_ Gerald was going on about? Why didn't I demand more information? Hindsight is Twenty-Twenty but no one ever mentioned how horrifying or painful it is.

“You will hate me.” My head snapped up at Jim's voice, speaking in a monotone. “You'll probably never forgive me. I don't care. I'll always be with you; I'm yours. I'll die for you but more importantly I'll kill to get you to the Dukkha. In another fifteen years I will no longer be able to protect you properly. They will.”

Dukkha? Something hardened in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Stabbing my insides. “Jim, man, do you even know what that word means? Dukkha is-”

“Understanding of Suffering, I know. First in the Buddhist truths, in their beliefs.” He turned, and even through his glasses I can feel his eyes boring into me. “I am sending you to the end of suffering.”

I was going to tell him where he can shove his understanding when I'm yanked to one side, down, sprawling against the slick wooden floor. I laid there, too stunned to move, staring at another pistol. This one pointed unerringly at Jim's head.

My chauffeur is a ninja. Well, not really but with his cap pulled low over his eyes and dressed in a black uniform so crisply ironed the fold lines could probably cut flesh if he moved wrong, he certainly reminded me of the pop-culture version.

I think too much.

If I had the breath, I'd be laughing my ass off. _This is too much._ Did some God or Force or Whatever somewhere thought, “Oh, hey, let's bring back The Sandburg Zone! I'm bored! Free entertainment!”

Oh, and now Mr. Hobart has a shiny gun out too. Pointed at Jim.

“Blair,” Mr. Hobart said, “get out of here.”

“NO!” A suddenly furious Gerald whipped out his own semi-auto and pointed it at me. Jim immediately changed targets to Gerald. My chauffeur did the same. Great. Just great. Gerald, in turn, ignored everyone but Mr. Hobart, and through clenched teeth, demanded, “ _What_ are you doing, _Bpu_?”

I'm not all that good with math but I count five pistols and three threatened heads. At physically-impossible-to-miss range. Gerald and Jim both have two each pointed at theirs and me, being the speshul snowflake that I am, has claims on the single, obviously psychotic one. Not that I'm, you know, trying to say my on-going trauma-drama is better or worse than anyone else's, and oh, _man_ , someone is going to die before this is all over, I just know it. My eyes nearly rolled into my head, threatening a good, old-fashioned fainting spell.

“ _Ah Jhiang_ ,” Mr. Hobart pleaded. I don't recognize the language but the tone didn't need any interpretation. “Let Blair go.”

 _“No!”_ The hiss is inhuman with fear. Grasping at the last straws. Gasping for the last bit of oxygen. I'm some kind of means to an end for Gerald too.

I can't belie- _The hell did Mr. Hobart just say?!_

“Blair can't replace you Gerald,” Mr. Hobart repeated, “You know this. You _know_ this. You are the next Mucilinda after Champa. Blair _is_ going back to Cascade where _his_ people are waiting.”

I got slowly to my knees, feeling a surreal calmness envelope me. Bubble wrapped.

“The Witch said I could leave if I can find the next Mucilinda. I found him. I even found his sentinel. Jim agrees with me!”

Gerald sounded like a five year old demanding the world be fair. Then again I completely understand. I don't want to be confined to a locked building for the rest of my life either. Oh, wait. Damn you, Jim.

“That bitch mislead you, damn it!” Mr. Hobart's patience has apparently found an end. Mucilindas are called many things, some were even regularly negative, but nothing quite _that_ descriptive before. “Stop being a fool. We have different Mucilindas for a reason! YOU KNOW THIS! Put your gun down! Now! Put it down!”

I gaped, amazed at this foul-mouthed Mr. Hobart. Foul-mouthed and hypocritical. _We have different Mucilindas for a reason,_ indeed, and one of them is apparently a bitch. I rubbed my face hard.

“Blair, get up!” Joel growled into Mr. Hobart's steadily rising voice. He backed slowly towards me. “Get up! Get out!”

“Don't!” Gerald shouted, “So help me God...”

“We worship the same God, Detective Choi,” Joel said. “Don't do this.”

“You don't know a damned thing about me!”

“You're right, I don't.” Joel carefully lifted his pistol away from any heads in the vicinity. “And I don't want too either. I'm sorry-”

“No,” Gerald laughed wetly, thickly, “you're not.”

“-but, yes, again, you're right, you are not important to me. I'm here for Blair.”

“That's right, Blair,” Gerald whispered. “You _are_ what they're waiting for. Such a good boy.”

“Gerald...” I'm tired of this “they” bullshit. I don't even know what the hell he's talking about but I recognize intention when I see it. “Gerald, come on, man, don't do that. Gary, put the gun down.”

Gerald swung his pistol around, barrel beneath his chin. Holy shit, oh, shit!

“Gary!” Jim barked.

Everyone now had their weapons pointed at the ceiling even Gerald in a rather macabre way. I was yanked up by the collar and shoved behind Joel.

I can't even say, “it's not going to be that bad, man.” From what I remember about visiting the Mucilinda, well, it was. Is. A beautiful gilded cage. Piles of cushions, rugs and mats, and rows of Buddhas, rows of monks. That ear-worm chanting surrounding a living symbol. Silk banners in orange saffron and marigold petals everywhere. The gritty incense clouding a darkened pavilion. Untouchable, inviolate. Someone behind a translucent veil forever held up, away, from this world's wickedness and materialism.

Oh, yeeah, that's why I didn't remember. Anthropologically speaking cults are fascinating. Up close and personal? Not so much. I can even see Jim's reasoning. But if the government is crazy enough to enslave one people why won't they go further and invade religious sanctums to do it? Hell, why not simply rape guides from First Nation reservations too as our ancestors did so long ago with their Manifest Destiny?

“Gary,” I reached out.

He pulled the trigger. Everyone shouted. Empty. Before we could all filter that into some kind of action, Gary was tackled to the ground by a grey blur I only later recognized as being Steven. Freeing us into horrified chaos.

Joel grabbed me and ran for it.

\-----

“This way,” Joel wheezed, heading for the main entrance.

There are a lot of things I envy about other people; None of whom I can name outside of movies but, hey, not important! What is, is their ability to run all out and talk at the same time. While making perfect sense. With perfectly recognizable words instead of pained grunts.

“'Kay, uh,” I dry-heaved, “ugh! Foul!”

“Go, go, go!”

I skidded hard against the doors, rebounding off of them when they didn't open. _What?!_ “Shit, locked!”

It's not a “pull” instead of “push” moment. I made damned sure to read the signs on the doors and know I'd gotten the action correct, and for a brief but very intense second I wished for a gun. It was probably bullet-proof anyway, knowing my luck. And as I fell backwards I can see a little girl dressed in good luck red on the other side of the glass. She turned at the noise, black hair gleaming like oil in the sun, still smiling, dimpled and gap toothed. The want evaporated, leaving only a sickening lurch in my stomach.

The fall saved me. Jim was right behind me, outstretched hand barely inches from my clothes.

Not gonna lie. My shriek was worthy of horror film heroines. 

He'd gone down on one knee in a controlled slide, probably intending to sweep me off of my feet. Unable to do so, his angle forced him into a spin which he simply leaned into, whirling onto his feet. All in one smooth, continuous motion. His trench coat flared out around him like Batman's cape.

I'm impressed.

I will also swear before a court of law that I believe he changed into that coat just for this effect. Though the sheer intimidating factor probably had something to do with it too.

I gained my feet and ran for all I'm worth towards Joel. Chauffeur streaked by me, and I heard two bodies slam together. I lowered my head, concentrated on not tripping while dodging people, furniture and “what ifs”, and kept running. Then I remembered our original plan if things got...complicated.

Finding the bright red rectangle, I veered for it. Joel instantly understood. I'm younger, fitter and therefore able to reach it faster. He didn't seem to mind.

The alarm lever will disengage all locks. Any useful auditory side effects is a wonderful, first-baby-naming bonus. Too bad the escalators to the underground parking is on the other side of the lobby and covered by a fire door rising as slow as the sun.

Heading back for the exits I can see the incredible colors and human traffic jams that is The Market which this lobby empties out into. The seamless floor-to-ceiling glass walls are _spotless_ , made even more noticeable by the greasy imprint I left behind on the doors.

I thought we used this lobby to avoid other sentinels. Now I know the real reason. Despite the deep, airy space, sound does not travel well in here. Jim, startlingly, is not an anomaly in his woe-is-me!-I-just-want-to-be- _normal_! song and dance but when one sense is deliberately silenced “normal” quickly becomes a very unpleasant experience for a sentinel. This lobby was made for visitors, guides and non-sentinels who wants to be close-by but not under constant or unintentional surveillance.

Joel and I slammed through the emergency exits, ignoring everything and everyone behind us. We scattered a group of brightly dressed folks like so many handkerchiefs thrown in the air then we were off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dukkha** is the first of the Buddhist Four Noble Truths. Dukkha is also the name of the religious organization which Jim is using to keep Blair safe.  
>  \- http://www.buddhanet.net/4noble.htm


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's taking a while for Blair to find his balls but he's getting there! This is reading more and more like a gen action fic than a romantic slash fic though...that'll hopefully change soon-ish.

I don't blame the average person for not remembering, especially when adrenaline is repeatedly kicking them in the head, but there is a _legal_ difference between self-defense and fighting.

Fighting is when people remain in the area and escalate the situation. No matter their cultural background, age or temperament, it almost always comes down to the same three causes; The other guy started it first! If I don't do something everyone's going to think I'm a bitch! They're just going to come after me away from witnesses anyway!

So, they fight back.

Thus the defender _becomes_ the aggressor and, in legal terms, that makes the defender _just as responsible_ for the violence.

Jim used to spell this out, literally A-B-C it on his notepad to instruct the few who weren't too wasted - or concussed - during a few memorable occasions. I call it testosterone poisoning. He calls it a culturally reinforced, society-wide inability to prioritize.

My insides used to burn and ooze with suppressed need when he goes into his own, very rare, lecture mode.

Most mistake the want to win (the fight or impressing the crowd or for peer approval and save face; whatever) for the need to survive. Fight or flight. Nine times out of ten the _want_ , well, wins. Because men are taught to be tough, to fight on, to one-up, no matter how trivial the actual events are when reviewed in the light of day, behind bars, and charged with 2nd degree murder.

Self-defense is actually what I'm currently doing. Running away. I'm definitely not making a target of myself by “defending my rights” and staying in an aggressor's sphere of influence. This way I'm making a clear effort to defuse the situation and if violence still happens to me, I will have no problem claiming a believable self-defense in court.

If I survive. If not, well, hopefully the witnesses are credible and willing to stand up for me, but I'm digressing. I tend to do that a lot, by the way.

I slammed into something with teeth-crunching pain.

Shouts. Emotions have colors, a full orchestra of sounds too. I can see it. Irritation is red and sickly pus-green. Or is that pain? Doesn't matter. It all hurts.

Blue is seeping in now, evergreens and ferns and thick, velvet moss forming where sidewalk, lamp posts and neon signs were. I knew instantly where I am even if I've never been here before, or know how I got here.

Since pain is no longer trying to grind my brain into bite-sized chunks curiosity bled through. Did I really hit something hard enough to hallucinate this badly? Definitely not my world. Mine would be snow-capped mountains so high they'd be scraping the underside of Heaven, and wrapped in yellow and red Tibetan prayer flags. I mean, I was expecting the lush growth, pointy canopy and vines but not like this.

This is exactly what I expect to see if Nature colored the Cascade Mountain Range's temperate rainforests blue. I know Jim knows his climates and flora, probably better than some of Rainier's Natural History Professors since he had to survive off of it, and that mushroom-covered fallen log is most definitely not typical of a tropical rainforest. Does this mean his subconsciousness unintentionally re-created home when he realized he was stranded in Peru?

“Good morning, Blair.”

I almost gave myself whiplash trying to turn and locate whoever was speaking to my shoulder blades.

A jaguar. Big and black and in my face. I read somewhere that they tend to grow over six feet in length from nose to tail-tip and weighing in at more than three hundred pounds in the flood lands of the Amazon basin.

This close I can see his fur rippling with each breath. The way his massive ribcage expanded and contracts, the blue sheen along each hair. Dear God, but he's beautiful.

And his fangs can easily pierce my skull, the most dense bone structure in any living creature.

Er. “Morning...uh...what do I call you?”

“Enquiri.”

Right. Of course. Jim's Chopec bestowed name. “Morning, Enquiri. Nice day, isn't it?”

The jaguar smiled without really changing its expression. Maybe he lowered his brow ridge or tipped his head, twitched a few whiskers and veiled the unnatural blue eyes from mine. I don't know and I don't care, I just remembered to breathe when what felt like shards of ice slid from my face.

Then I remembered Jim always looked away first, as if he was acknowledging me the only way he knows how to anymore. Following the rule of the jungle. A smile is a challenge. Eye contact is a thrown gauntlet.

Oh, shit. Jim, not once, had _taken_ control this entire time. He _asked_ for it and not recognizing any of the signs for what it was, I gave it to him. I said, resigned, “I have to go back to Jim, don't I?”

“I can't answer that to your satisfaction.”

“Then what can you answer for me?” _To your satisfaction._ That is some specific language there.

“Your wolf is a pack animal.”

I sighed, “And here comes the obligatory cryptic warning.”

Enquiri yawned, unimpressed. Couldn't say the same about me when his finger-length fangs cut a deeply serrated profile against the jungle backdrop and a long, broadly pink tongue flopped out, curling lazily in the air. He twitched more whiskers and his tail for good measure.

“Like humans wolves will become sick and-” the black head turned, ears swiveling, as if he could hear something through the thick foliage, “-wrong if isolated. You are only hurting yourself more if you leave your pack.”

“My pack wants to lock me in a building on an island in the middle of an inland sea.” Bitter? Who me? Naw!

“Then refuse and tell them to go fuck themselves.”

My mouth dropped open.

“So, wait,” confused, I looked around wildly, “I...you...they'd listen to me if I said that?”

“You are born to be the core. Jim may be your Holy Grail but you're his as well, and to so many others. Words no longer have value in your world but if you show them you will not tolerate being sequestered they will understand. You are the Guide. Act like one instead of a pretty-pretty princess. Otherwise you have no rights to whine.”

Ouch. Then again, I asked for it.

Enquiri tipped his head to one side. His broken spots are shadows within shadows on his body.

“Can I touch you?”

He dipped his head forward in a regal move involving sinuous muscles and a stunningly flexible spine. “Behind the ears are in need of a good scratch.”

I giggled nervously then quickly swallowed it when he chuffed.

“That is possibly the most annoying noise I've ever encountered,” he grunted, “No. Not quite, but it's a good thing you are male. If you have children with Jim I will have to kill it the first time it cries.”

“Yes, sir.” Or should I be saying no to infanticide? Illogical; I'm a man therefore this entire train of thought is pointless. Which is why I will go back to petting my favorite fantasy's imaginary best friend. On the other hand, I have Jim's spirit totem's blessings! Oh, _yeah._

How do you describe one of Nature's master works? I scraped my way into the luxurious piles until I reached his skin which slid beneath my fingers, against the bone. Muscles tightened, bunching, directing his ears this way and that, perking them when I dragged my nails over the fuzzy wrinkles at their base. His skull is almost as big as mine. I looked into his eyes, like slivers of the sky, before he squinted in bliss.

There never was another sentient being. This is all Jim. His intelligence sparkling with humor and earnestness, his shy thoughtfulness and rough playfulness.

Enquiri butt his head against my chest. “Since I am being helpful and all,” he announced, rubbing his cheeks against me, “I should mention your wolf is a bitch.”

A low warning growl vibrated through my chest from that large head when I accidentally yanked on his ear.

Huh, Jim sounded exactly like this. That's...disturbingly hot. No, no, no, I'm not into bestiality, damn it.

“Uh,” I shook my head, “as in female dog? Or?”

“She,” Enquiri flicked the abused ear, “is a teasing bitch.”

“Okay, both. Gotcha.” I wondered if spirit guides had genders because humans put so much importance and emphasis on it. Making children, and by association sex and gender identity, is what drives evolution after all.

“She's also in heat.” Well, that sort of answered that question.

And this time he snapped his jaws together a centimeter from my face when I pulled out fur. I swear I saw Death wave his scythe excitedly at me. Or it could just be those fangs flashing before my eyes.

“You will not do that again or you will be missing vital parts.”

“S-sorry.”

“And yes, that was my roundabout way of saying you need to get laid. If you don't do something about it, I will.”

I didn't ask what he wanted me to do or how should I go about doing it. I can recognize a provocation when I'm hit repeatedly over the head with one so I detoured around it, not even bothering to be curious. I do not want to know why my totem is female either. I couldn't stop wondering what she looked like in human form though...

Enquiri apparently caught that. A big cat's smirk is very similar to a human's, just with built-in badass attitude. “Hm, an interesting question...”

“You can read minds?! No, wait, don't answer that. Okay, okay,” _Don't mouth off to an otherworldly creature. Don't get pissed off at an otherworldly creature either!_ I blinked furiously instead. “As fun as this is, where's Jim in the real world?”

“Where did you last see him?”

Right, back at ACSS. “Do you know who injured him?”

“Your mother-”

I should be sweating my balls off in the jungle instead I felt nothing. No sense of space or pressure to remind me I'm real, that I exist and I have actual mass. With his words my sense of self nearly disappeared too, coldness seeping in, frosting my insides.

“-is a very powerful believer. Do not let Jim find her.” Blue stared intently into mine. _“I will kill it.”_

The cold snapped away when anger slammed through me. “ _It_ has a nam-”

“ _Naomi_ -” Enquiri interrupted, moving his jaw and carefully pronouncing the name. It's cute when cartoons or computer generated critters in movies do it but in real life? No. He shouldn't have the anatomy to make those sounds, shape that noise. The action is revoltingly unnatural to see. “-Naomi does not want you to go back to Jim. He lied about her involvement, believing you don't need to know and wanting to protect you. In fact, they both think they know what's best for you.”

“Of course, everyone knows what's best for me!” There's no relief in feeling anger again. This isn't the same flavor I'd grown comfortable with in the past four years. “The last time she tried to do what's best for me, I lost everything. She has no right. No rights!”

Enquiri watched me rage.

“Why,” My anger drifted away. It's too much investment for so little return. “should I listen to you?”

“Indeed,” Enquiri replied, “why should you?”

I need to stop this. If I don't like the answers I shouldn't ask questions, but look where that's put me. So I need to stop reacting stupidly to the answers if I want to control my own life.

I looked around through the blue and indigo then back at Enquiri. For a brief, intense period Enquiri had a purpose, a meaning to exist. Then, nothing.

“A hell of a thing to be forgotten, isn't it?” This private world Jim created to cope with a reality he had no control over...

No reply, no change in his face. If I'm even reading a cat's expression correctly in the first place.

“I've always believed in freedom of choice.” Enquiri settled into a new position, patiently letting me talk out my thoughts. “In the past four years I screamed and shouted and sobbed about how unfair the world is. So unfair. If only I had a battle plan about how to continue I wouldn't be in this mess. If I really valued having a choice and my freedom I shouldn't be wishing for a cosmic clue, should I?”

“Blair.” Thankfully, Enquiri didn't make an effort to speak out loud. “The only guarantee I can give you is Jim loves you. He will become whatever you need.”

 _That's horrible._ No one should have that kind of power over someone else. “You're trying to prevent that, aren't you? Jim's changing into something not...not...”

“He no longer hears me. Help him, that's all I ask.”

 _How?!_ But I knew that would only make him go all Sage Advice and Solemn Proclamations on me. I'll deal with it when I'm no longer talking to his subconsciousness or whatever Enquiri is. On a lark, I asked, “Do you know my mother's spirit totem?”

“It's what humans call a monarch butterfly.”

I raised a brow, “that's quite a definite answer.”

“Your mother is a very definite woman, no matter what her physical appearance or what passes for her personal philosophy suggests.”

I pushed my luck, “Do we choose you or do you choose us?”

“I do not know,” he tilted his head, the tip of his tongue poked out. “We just are.”

“You have no choice in this?”

“I choose to stay with Jim.”

“Despite being forgotten and dismissed and spoken about as if you don't exist?”

“I don't,” Enquiri chuffed, amused. “At least, not in the physical sense humans view their world. Jim is correct.”

“What is this place?”

“This place is whatever Jim needs it to be. You can even say I'm Jim's baser instincts given form and intent.”

“By Jim?”

“You are wasting time on irrelevant details.”

It's not that he doesn't care, I realized. Curiosity and plain human desire to know, to understand, about one's own existence and place in this world is just not present in him in the first place. The key word here is _human_. Whether it's true or not that he was created from a human being's desires, Enquiri is not human. He doesn't seem to have the same hang-ups. Is it because he does not have a human brain to create human emotions and so cannot think or feel like a human? But isn't he just another aspect of Jim?

“Blair-”

“I can't stop thinking!”

“I know. There's nothing wrong with that.” Oh, thanks for throwing my words back in my face. “But I am a messenger, nothing more, and Jim is waiting for you. Here's another freebie: So is misery. There is a saying in English, 'Misery loves company.' Unfortunately your mother does not know she is lost. Trying to help her will only offend and alienate her. She will never find what she is looking for and therefore tries to ask for help by helping others become as lost as she is.”

I can almost see his quotation fingers. “I resent that, meditation is not always about the destination.”

“I will slap you.” Enquiri held up a paw, extending his finger-length, finger- _width_ claws.

“I'm sorry,” I backed away, out of range. Hopefully. “Look, please, don't hurt her-”

“Do not deliberately misunderstand me again.” The rumbling breath ruffled my hair despite the distance I'd put between us. “Delude yourself on your own time but not mine, and be quiet until I am finished.”

I shut up.

“Instant obedience?”

He hunched sideways, prowling forward, poking me with his tail. I edged away. He followed, body low to the ground, head held out and parallel to it. His shoulder blades rose and fell sharply, rolling beneath his night-dark fur. He gleamed with intent, a rhythmic rumble fading in and out with each breath. “Hm...”

Grey fur and paintbrush tail from the corner of my eyes again. Eh? Wait, that's attached to me! I looked between my legs. What the hell. Where is my...wait, I..? I whimpered when I found absolutely nothing dangling between my legs.

Black against blue, getting closer.

“Stop running, Blair,” floated to me even as I leapt back, turning in mid-air and did just that. “All it does is trigger my need to hunt you down. Make you submit. I'm no different...I'm not blaming you, for anything but please, work with me here, Chief.”

“ _Blair!_ Focus on me, come on.”

Ow. More loud noises, even if it is sensible advice. I bit the inside of my mouth hard. The sharply localized pain cleared some of the fuzziness and general broken-glass feeling out of my head.

“I don't know what's going on.” Joel's voice snapped into clarity and I hunch away, pain making his voice ring in my head. “Blair's been all over the place emotionally-”

Oh, traitors, all of them! What happened to making me feel better, huh?

”-been very docile and quiet otherwise.” _Seyz u,_ I replied, but only in my head. If I spoke out loud I'm afraid it might fall off. “I think Hobart was trying to help counteract with the water he's been giving Blair. Since I don't know what Blair is dosed with I can't tell if it's working. We got out of there when Hobart distracted Gerald and Jim in the lobby.”

Knew it. Jim drugged me, that bastard. The blue jungle is probably from my own deep-seated need to believe I'm still something special to him.

Too embarrassed to think about it for long and ignoring all the “Blair? You alright?” questions, I planned my revenge. At least whatever he'd given me seems fairly mild. Not that it'll save him when we meet again. He is _so_ going down.

“Can we trust this Hobart character?”

Is that Simon? Shit, if he's near so is Jim. I panicked.

“Sandburg! What? Shit, sit on him if you have too. What?! I don't care!”

From the corner of my eyes grey fur ruffled. I turned, buildings and people lurching sickeningly all over the place, trying to see it, maybe call it back. Is it my wolf? Where did it go? How did it end up in a car? How much time had passed? Damn it!

“Damn it, Blair! I'm not with Jim! I'm trying to save your sorry ass, now quit it!”

I stopped. Didn't really have a choice what with two men sitting on me.

“And what the hell, Joel? Hobart, as in Eric Hobart?”

_Is Mr. Hobart that important?_

Joel resumed his guesswork, out of breath but otherwise surprisingly unconcerned. “Yes. Hobart probably helped us because he has his own agenda. I'm a little concerned about the driver, never got his name. He seems to be with Hobart, but personally I don't want to wait around and find out. You can, if you want too.”

“Not my jurisdiction.” Under his breath Simon muttered, “ _What_ in the world did you piss off, Blair?”

 _As soon as I know, Simon, you'll be next._ But there are entire sides to this conversation I'm missing and I'm not down with that.

The pain decided to concentrate on chewing on one eyeball instead of both so my vision cleared long enough for me to see Simon, not Joel, hovering over me. His face shone with sweat, reminding me of coffee beans. Joel and Simon have beautifully dark complexions, usually stretched into a shiny smoothness to showcase big, white smiles. Good times and good friends.

“Simon?” What an unmanly squeak. I disavow all knowledge and blood relations to it...regardless of what I said earlier about sounding like a woman. “Simon, I don't feel so good.”

“I know, but, hey, I have an APB out for Jim's arrest. Kidnapping and false imprisonment. You have to help me on this one.”

“Guh-go-tits-” Oops, unintentional sexual harassment. Let's try again; “Got it, yeah, helping.”

“Good, that's good-”

“-but you're going the wrong way,” Joel chuckled.

Right. I'm sliding off the seat, but I can't seem to remember where my arms and legs are.

Something big and dark is coming in fast with low, leaping movements behind us. I can't see it but I can feel it.

How long was I out? I wanted to ask, but my tongue is refusing to cooperate. We're in a large vehicle but a part of me still felt like reality is far away, stretched thin. We're shrieking through the middle of Downtown Seattle like we have the right of way. Do we?

I turned carefully, minding my overcooked brain. Whatever it is was suddenly there, in our time and space, keeping pace, sliding right through the buildings. Yikes. Of course, it's not real. _But what if it was?_ Great, I'm back to what-ifs. But...what if? It could hide right next to us, following in the concrete, acting like a homing beacon for Jim.

“Don't go South through the city. Traffic is being re-routed around the International District,” Joel said. “How-Oh, okay.”

I looked around in time to see Simon put his snazzy phone away. It was one of those new-fangled toys with the big screens and even bigger bills but more importantly, it has a camera. Joel had read something on the screen.

Simon knows all about how sensitive Jim really was so, of course, he's not talking much. We found out early on that sentinel-sight is especially sensitive to the built-in security feature which makes reading something on the phone's screen from a certain distance very painful. It's possible to do but I doubt Jim wanted to suffer through a tonsil-eating migraine for the rest of the week.

We had to slow down, taking a corner a little too fast. Seattle's one-way streets are made even more annoying by the steep hills they're built on. Then the big, black thing solidified into this reality.

It's not Enquiri, unless he turned into a snow leopard. Is that even possible? Can we change our totem animal?

It ran along side us, its spine bending nearly in half every time its paws lifted off the ground and its even more incredible tail whipping like six feet of furry, spotted, boa constrictor to keep balance. It said, “Inability to take responsibility.” Then it had the nerve to cluck at me. “Disappointing.”

A black panther - Enquiri! Yay! - glanced past, crossing in front of the snow leopard. We drove right through them. I managed to swallow my shriek into a high, breathless gasp when I passed through Enquiri. If nothing else, he seemed to take some of the pain away with him.

“Christ!” Joel yelped, having gone right through the snow leopard. “That was-” He twisted around and stared out the back window, “there were big cats in the road!”

I rolled my eyes, not because I was exasperated but because my motor control is shot. “Black is Jim's,” I managed to get out.

“A sentinel thing, right? What about the grey one?”

“Dunno.” I frowned, concentrating and trying to get my blood pressure under control. “Yours?”

“None of us comes from or have gone to a place where snow leopards are roaming wild.”

Simon whipped around, trying to locate the animals, probably. Who knows at this point?

The only person I know who could possibly boast a snow leopard as a totem spirit is Pat. I know he was sent to Afghanistan after 9/11 and stayed there until he was sent back to the States. His living body returned but the rest of him never did. Notoriously elusive and solitary. Sounds about right.

Unless it's Mr. Hobart or Gerald, then, well, I have nothing to say.

I'm thinking about this like it's the most natural thing in the world to see two wild predators rolling around on the asphalt in broad daylight.

“I have to go back to Jim.”

The reply is an immediate and unanimous, “No.” A resounding baritone of negativity which included whoever was driving and the one riding shotgun. Who has the real deal in their lap, pointed out the window.

“I can't keep running away.”

“Yes,” Simon said, biting my head off, “you can. We have access to resources many minorities do not.”

“Even after seven tonight?” A firm nod from Simon made me look at him again, “It's good to see you again, Simon.”

Simon shook his head, “I wish it was under better circumstances. I wish I knew what Jim planned. I would never have let him get this far.”

“Simon,” I can't believe I had to point this out, though I did it as gently as I could, “you're doing exactly what Jim is trying to do.”

Shock widened his eyes and I spoke over his stuttered protests, “I have to go back to him.”

“Why?” Joel asked.

“I'm his Guide.” wouldn't cut it. Neither would, “his spirit totem begged me too.” I settled for, “it's the safest place for me to be right now.”

“The lesser of all the evils out there today,” Joel said.

“Something like that, yeah.” I squeezed his shoulder and looked back at Simon. “Can I borrow your phone?”

\-----

Locals and tourists milled around Pioneer Square, some hung out of doorways or gawked through the gorgeous glass storefronts. A few, predictably, were taking photos.

Ooh, celebrities! “Who is it?” “Dunno, dun care, snapping just in case though!” “What if they're not? “Eh? Who cares? That guy looks important. It's gonna be _awesome._ ”

Nobody ever questioned what about it would be awesome; it just will be.

At times like this, against my better judgement, not to mention bad karma, I think badly of them. And when they become collateral damage I can't stop the thought; “Good, stupidity slowly being weeded from the gene pool.”

Maybe it's a good thing I don't have children after all.

_”What?” I'd demanded, “What are you laughing at?”_

_“You, Darwin, you're...” Jim shrugged, grinning, “so much more...than you lead people to believe.”_

_“They can believe whatever they want. It's you I need to convince, no one else.”_

_“I know. Thanks.”_

But, Jim, you don't know the half of it.

I looked up at the curved underside of the rebuilt Victorian pergola. The color of evergreen needles it's an intricate, antique wrought iron and glass piece, and was shattered by a semi-truck in 2001. But no one would be able to tell after having been painstakingly welded back together. It set the tone for the neighborhood's romantic architecture and brick-lined streets watched over by ornate iron lampposts.

A black shape pooled around my legs and I stared into Enquiri's familiar blue eyes. _Hey, there. Who was the snow leopard? Where is it?_

Enquiri started licking his paws.

_Fine, ignore me. I can do the same to you too._

I used to be into this mystical stuff hardcore. Too bad I only cared about the esoteric aspect instead of the practical side. Like, oh, if Joel can see the jaguar, is it visible to everyone else too? How the hell can I explain him?

“Oh, look, Simon! It followed me home. Can I keep it, huh, huh? Can I?” Or how about, “Sorry, I think Woodland Park Zoo lost one of their kitties? I'm taking it back...” or better yet, “No, no, I didn't steal him! We're taking a walk, that's all! Exercise is important for both humans and animals, right?!”

“Jim's spirit guide is here,” Simon noted to nobody in particular after ducking out of the massive, black sports utility vehicle we'd arrived in. He dismissed black panther with another look.

That worked too.

“He calls himself Enquiri,” I said.

Simon and Joel just gave me a sideways look but neither came any closer.

\-----

One moment I'm sitting in a pocket of silence and peacefulness then several cars I'd noted earlier with their powerful engines came out of nowhere. Men and women bristling with weapons and determination surrounded us.

A small, wiry man with a face like a battered leather shoe said something in a language I haven't heard in over fifteen years. A mountain tribe dialect deep within the Himalayas, crossing country borders, cultures and religions.

I blurted, “Buntu!”

The leather cracked revealing tobacco stained teeth. He motioned for me to come closer but Enquiri growled a warning, winding around my legs even tighter. I can _feel_ the fur and muscles shifting against me. _Okay, okay, you're real,_ I thought, delighted and freaked out in equal measure.

“I know him, Enquiri, he's safe.” I pointed at Buntu, a name that didn't quite sound right in English but it was my best pronunciation. Buntu bowed shyly in my direction while still managing to be menacing towards everyone else.

Enquiri hissed – Jaguars can do that?! - and tail lashing, swiped at another man who was headed towards me. The man stumbled to a stop, eyes widening. Harsh blurts of info passed between these men. Some can see Enquiri, some can't. Neat trick.

Enquiri sat on my feet, grumbling, and I tried not to wonder if anyone is thinking I was talking to thin air. Make way, crazy person coming through!

“Please, come?” Buntu said haltingly, “Naomi is with us. Waiting for you. Come.”

I already knew they weren't with Jim. I wished I'd asked him what the men he killed look like. They couldn't be with these guys. I trust them. Seventeen years ago they personally escorted Naomi and me out of Nepal and clear all the way to the American Embassy in New Delhi, in another country entirely. They left their loved ones right in the middle of their country's political upheaval for virtual strangers. They never asked for anything in return except for me to take care of myself. Promise? I promised.

“Where were we going?” I don't know where we _can_ go. “There's a whole lot of people out there looking for guides.”

“And they all have their own agendas.”

Eh? The driver! You would think after everything I'd take more interest in my surroundings but no, I can't believe I just sort of zoned out after I'd taken some painkillers.

“Rafe?” I looked past everyone, into the black SUV's interior. “Is that you, man?!”

His hair was covered by a baseball cap, leaving his eyes in shadows but I'll recognize that jawline anywhere. Almost as identifiable as Jim's, Rafe's dark looks and ready smile always meant he had a full social calender. Was he hiding a secret side or something too?

“Yep,” Rafe grinned at me and I managed to catch my flinch. “Gotta admit, it's always exciting around you, Sandboy.”

I laughed despite everything, “I'm sorry.”

Detective No-First-Name Rafe shrugged. I know he's trying to stall for time. Time for what? Or was it who? Weren't they the calvary? Whatever. My head hurts enough as it is. I'm just glad to see Rafe's doing well though...not at the moment.

“We were headed for Pier 52,” Rafe said. ”Coleman Dock.”

“The ferry?”

“Yep, we were going to cross the Sound to the Suquamish reservation on the Kitsap Peninsula. They're offering asylum to all guides. The tribe is large enough and powerful enough to keep their word if, or when, the US government makes a move. I just...hadn't expected outside competition for our, er, natural resources.”

Rafe is giving me all the information I need to make my own way there. At this point it doesn't matter who knows what as long as the right person gets the info. Was Jim doing the same thing? Knowing Mr. Hobart was probably not on board with his plan but discussing it out in the open anyway?

“Joel?” He is my bedrock, my baseline right now.

“No, I wasn't in on any of this. I heard about what's happening through my community grapevine. Did you know most state and city police departments are told to stay out of the way unless they have more than five sentinels on staff tonight?”

I shook my head. Ouch. Wrong move. I sat down abruptly. Everyone tensed but I held up a hand, “Hey, nobody lose it now. I just, give me a few, would ya?”

“I am sorry, Blair, please come with us,” Buntu said.

He must have balls of steel because though his words were urgent, his tone was not. He didn't look or act nervous at all. I didn't like that. It meant despite being a sentinel and on the other side of the planet from his native habitat he felt secure enough to stand here, letting us talk.

“My men blocked the intersection but we must go now. James Ellison,” Buntu hesitated, “Mr. Ellison is not a good match for you. He does not believe in you.”

“I know.” And Enquiri snarled at the same time, looking back at me anxiously. Defending Jim's honor? Why won't he talk? I'm fast needing an interpreter.

No one came any closer but they edged around, cutting off all possible escape routes. The snow leopard crept up onto the SUV's hood. It was looking at Buntu in that intent way predators did when targeting a kill. There was something on Buntu's shoulder, and shuddering, I can see the hazy outline of a massive bird.

Another man – a guide - twitched, barked a word, and Buntu ducked, immediately crawling for the dubious safety of the car he'd come out of. The snow leopard missed.

When Buntu moved so did everyone else. The heavy, hard CRACK! in the middle of a busy city could be anything, a grate falling, something metal slamming together, but we all knew what a bullet snapping through the air sounded like.

The snow leopard's sentinel is shooting at Buntu. Suppressing fire, I think it's called. Not to kill or even hit anyone but just to keep them from moving.

Even as I'm thinking that I was running, following Enquiri. _Forget us, Blair. Just run._ Damn you, Joel. I skidded on the wet cobblestone, grabbing for a heavily ornamented lamp post, regained my balance and swung after the black panther. Over the heavy thudding and roaring in my ear I can still hear people running, screaming. I'm not sure if there is anyone after me in particular, not that it mattered.

Buntu thinks I'll be safe with him and, presumably, Naomi. Jim thinks I'll be safe with the Dukkha. Rafe and the Suquamish. Simon and...whatever, whoever. Why isn't anyone asking what the guides want?

A loud BOOM! followed by a rush of air nearly knocked me off of my feet. Don't let anyone tell you a grenade can't touch you a block away, that's pure bullshit. There is barely any obstacle between where everyone had hunkered down and me, so the blast radius is bigger, badder.

The poor pergola, it just can't seem to get a break. I hope everyone I love is okay. I stumbled against a building, gasped for air. I wonder what it says about me that I thought first about the landmark then the people?

Enquiri tangled himself around me, urging me to get back up. I didn't look behind me. What's the point except to sap my strength and willpower? I got back on my feet, swaying like a binge drinker. Ooh, nausea.

Before I could shove off again the alley I'd taken shelter in darkened abruptly. I'm sure I screamed but I don't remember and I can't hear worth shit. My way is blocked by a very big Chevrolet and flint-eyed men boiled out, coming straight for me. I immediately turned and ran, or tried too anyway. I tripped on my own feet, landing hard on my hands and knees. Aw, well, fuck.

This is the kind of idiotic shit you see in movies and derisively declare you'd never do, you know? I mean, shit, in a situation like this I'd hope to be a helluva lot more athletic too. Except...I am. All that “anger management” has the awesome side effect of toned muscles and heightened reflexes. Only now do I remember it's not the physical taxation, it's the mental and emotional toll that's most brutal.

Enquiri slithered, fangs out and claws extended, back towards the truck. Oh, someone was shouting all this time. Several someones are shouting now. Lots of horrified shrieking too. Hey, absolutely nothing wrong with that. I mean, when a full grown jaguar, the third largest cat after the lion and tiger, explodes out of thin air and latches onto your face I think it's a perfectly acceptable, logical reaction, in fact.

Holy smokes, gunfire! Bullets are splintering and ricocheting everywhere. Self preservation forced me to crawl behind one of those ubiquitous trashcan/dumpster things and cower (Hey, if there was room, I'd be _in_ it.) as the gloom was lit up by bright, crackling flashes from several weapons going off. Damn but gunshots are _loud._ The noise almost has a physical weight. It's enough to pound what's left of my brains into leaking out of every hole in my head.

Personally, I always thought the reason why Jim preferred to watch sports almost exclusively is not due to PTSD, that too, but simply because he'd die laughing if he watched anything else. As someone who knows his weapons inside and out, it seems like every movie or TV show features guns prominently, and usually featured with ludicrously bad physics.

Bullets create sonic booms when they break the sound barrier. In enclosed spaces with several dozen of them going off at the same time (In the freaking dark!) it will make everyone within ten feet of it deaf for at least half an hour without adequate ear protection. Did I mention the muzzle flash also whites out or creates giant, fuzzy spots in everyone's visions? Sentinels are even worse off. They depend heavily on electronics and gadgets to compensate, even with a competent guide.

I saw nothing like the sunglasses on Jim being worn by these guys. I think I can safely bet they are not sentinels. Or professionals. Which actually makes this situation even worse. It's doubly true when it comes to firearms that a little knowledge is more dangerous than none at all.

Damn it, I miss you Jim. The crazy stuff we used to talk about, wonder about, go on and on about and then, time and resources permitting (I guess boys will be boys, huh?) we'd actually test it out. I never sent your results in to ACSS but I always did the same tests with other sentinels whose results I _did_ send in. Those saved lives, Jim! Remember that? It wasn't always about you, man.

Hey, a silver-lining, maybe? At least I'm not the only one screaming like a six year old girl getting all of her vaccinations today. Though now it's more like, yikes, a cat who's getting his balls cut off without the benefits of anesthesia. Whoever that is I will pray or meditate or, uh, do something for his soul. I swear.

Head buzzing and half-blind I huddled in the stinking corner of the alley.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeaaah! Made it! Still no beta so all mistakes are mine. Thanks very much for all the encouragement and comments.

Their screams ended abruptly. Silence stained the alley, dampening the sounds of a city in distress.

Should I take a look? Should I just stay here?

A scuffling noise made me flinch hard against the dumpster.

Rats.

Enquiri watched them scurry around, brave as only city-living can make them, then looked back at me.

If he's not a sign then I'm not a man. I carefully stood up, my joints creaking in protest. Limping, I gritted my teeth against the pain, restless beneath the muffling blanket of painkillers.

Bodies are sprawled boneless, steaming slightly in the cool air. They looked much smaller now that life is trickling out of them. Their heads...

I backed away.

I understand now.

“Jim,” I whispered, “I know we're men and we do manly things but _fuck it_ , man, I'm going to talk about my feelings. First, I'm not the Blair from four years ago. Back then I was desperate to prove myself to you. To show I can be responsible and that I'm not extra baggage. This-” I swept my arms out, needing to do something physical. “-whatever this is, being a human bait-thing or whatever, is not working for me. I know that back then this was exactly what I wanted, to be useful; in the know, if you will. I'm not like that anymore.”

Steel and glass and marble highrises towered over this tiny alley with many decent vantage points for a Marine sniper.

The bodies are voiding themselves now, muscles unclenching. I took a shallow breath, grounding myself in this ugly place. “When I see you next -- And this is the important part, man. -- I want to know what the plan is. Everything. Okay?”

A toneless, _“Blair.”_ cut through the ringing echo.

“I'm going to take that as a yes.”

All guides are emphatic, kind of like organic radios, picking up sentinels everywhere we go. I'm one of the few who only has one channel. Pat will never be my sentinel the way Jim is. Though most of my educated guesses about Jim's well-being is through this method, like anything that doesn't get used often this ability deteriorates.

I didn't help the situation any by being indecisive and Jim's –- Growth? Maturation? -- changed him just enough over the years that I'm not quite in tune with him anymore.

So that voice I think I'm hearing? He's not anywhere near me. I can, almost, guess what he's doing right now, just like how he can predict what I can do next, and is why he's able to string me along like this.

_“Blair.”_

Painkillers are the best thing Man's ever made in my humble opinion and adrenaline is a glorious thing, indeed. Then it wears off. Being conscious _really_ sucks right now.

“I know I made you constantly reconsider every time you thought about trusting me. I was a selfish little prick –- I still am, don't get me wrong! -- but at twenty-six, man, I only wanted you to _look_ at me. I even understood I was putting you in danger when I refused to stay out of the line of fire and forcing you to divide your attention. I want to say I'm a little more secure these days but that'd be a big, fat lie. So I'm asking for your patience. I'm learning things all over again.”

No answer. Not even a hint of black roses against black fur.

“Because in the end I only want to be with you.”

\-----

A low growl made me look around then up.

Enquiri is perched in a window next to a fire escape. Emergency sirens are just around the corner.

The police will do a building-to-building search, cordoning off the area, looking for the perp. I need to find a bolt hole.

He chuffed. I backed up then ran and leapt for the lowest rung. The clanging-clattering of metal on metal is loud. Itself a type of alarm, alerting folks in the adjacent buildings.

I climbed quickly. The window is open and I'm inside even as blue and red lights splashed luridly through the alley.

I looked at Enquiri, “Is my wolf leading Jim?”

Enquiri didn't bother acknowledging me, nearly disappearing into the gloom. Only glinting eyes allowed me to follow.

I'm in a dim, wide hallway. Only sunlight illuminated either end through the windows, one of which I'd climbed through. A few wall sconces still worked but it only made the darkness...deeper.

The black panther ghosted up the staircase. We passed several floors before he stepped out into a hallway. He stopped then passed right through a door. I made a face. He poked his head out, eyes narrowed to blazing slits.

_“It's unlocked.”_

He can read my mind but I can't “read” or “hear” him unless he talks to me first. That sucks even worse.

Once in the apartment I looked around. A studio apartment. Nothing personal to identify who stayed here or if they're even male or female. I managed three steps in before I'm partially inside the shower stall. I slipped into the kitchenette where I had to make like a ballerina and turn around on my toes, sucking in my stomach.

Shit.

When the built-in bed folded into the wall the space below revealed a (very short) desk and more storage. I carefully pulled the bed down. Enquiri immediately took ownership.

In his position I can cook food without having to sit up at all.

_“Change.”_ He waved his tail at a built-in dresser across from the bed. Its top was half of the kitchen counter space.

The only way to open the bottom two drawers is to fold the bed into its niche again.

Enquiri leapt onto the desk.

“Who am I robbing?”

_“Do you really care?”_ He flicked his tail dismissively. _“They will fit. Don't forget your shoes and sock.”_

I opened several drawers and found jeans, t-shirts, a few sweaters and socks, all rolled neatly away. I randomly grabbed one of everything, not touching the boxers. I had to get back into the shower to change.

One black ear perked up, swiveling. _“Police. K9 unit.”_ I was startled by the letter and number popping into my thoughts. _“Smarter than their handlers give them credit for, and it's a lot, but very disciplined.”_

Enquiri is very amused by this for some reason.

The picture of anticipation, he oozes down, passing me and was partially through the door when he thoughtfully ordered, _“Stay. I will distract them.”_

“Woof.”

A frozen glare then he was gone.

I pulled the bed back down and sat, fiddling with my belt. Everything is a little too tight except for the shoes. The belt's not needed. I put it on anyway, unable to leave the last piece of my second chance behind.

I poked through the kitchen, rifling through every nook and cranny. Built-in bookshelves covered the walls and over the bed. Even the kitchen wasn't spared. The space between the cabinets and ceiling is stuffed full of more books. I found a couple of 7-UPs in the fridge. The freezer held some chicken, some beef and a frozen pizza.

I stopped when I heard barking and muffled commands. Very close. I looked at the single window but didn't dare get closer. The door's not locked. I was about to lock it when someone knocked.

I nearly fell over in a panic.

The knocking came again but I'm frozen in the shower stall. I can't even make myself look through the security hole.

“Blair,” came the same toneless, shapeless sound.

Jim.

The doorknob turned without my help.

The wolf came in first, a thing of smoke and fog, a shaggy creature with my blue eyes.

_Jim looks the same._ A ridiculous thought. It was barely two hours ago when I last saw him.

He had to close the door or he'd have to talk to me through it. His blue eyes gleamed in the muted light.

“Ji-”

Eyes narrowing a sharp, “What happened?” interrupted me.

“I ran into a moving car,” I replied, suddenly impatient and dismissing the bloody, painful mass that's my current existence, “but that's not important right now.”

Both of his brows shot up.

“You drugged me!”

“You know,” he said after a moment, “I'm regretting not using something more potent.”

“You-!” I'm so angry I can barely breath. “You are a world-class jerk, you know that?”

“We've established that.”

“Not to my satisfaction!”

“Really? You're in the middle of several international kidnapping attempts and you want to argue about this, right now?”

“YES!” I wanted to howl but Jim re-introduced reality to me when he touched my swollen jaw.

Flinching away I sat abruptly on the bed – and, oh, I regretted that too - holding what's left of my face together. My entire right side felt like several very hot balloons stuffed inside one another with my bones grinding against each other in it.

Jim rummaged through the freezer, found some ice, a shirt, and with a more thorough search, a hammer. He cracked a few ice cubes, scooped the chips into a plastic bag and wrapped the shirt around it. He handed the entire thing to me. No comment necessary.

I agreed.

I just sat there trying to remember my native language is American English and not every swear word in every other language I knew.

Why didn't I think of doing that when I first came here?

I took the shirt-covered ice gingerly.

“Got a cellphone on you?” Jim tossed a silvery rectangle towards me. I caught it, muttering, “Thanks.”

I'm crowded towards the wall when he sat down on the bed. I glared at the tiny thing in my hand instead of the real source of my irritation. “Untraceable?”

“Disposable.”

“Aren't you curious about who I'm calling?”

“No.”

“I want confirmation about everything.”

“Have fun.”

“Buntu and his men disappeared into the International District,” I mused, ignoring the fact that he can barely choke out a conversation with me. “There's really nothing the police can do since the parade is in full swing.”

The Seattle PD doesn't have the best public image right now. Sparking off a race riot is probably not at the top of their To-Do list.

Jim said, “Ellison Investments is backing the Dukkha and their Mucilinda. Using them.”

“Gerald,” I stopped, hissing when the pain from the phone's piercing ringing momentarily swamped me, “thinks it's the other way around.”

Jim's smile is quick and vicious.

I slid the ice over my throbbing eyes and held the phone to my ear.

“Blair-”

“Speak up,” I interrupted. “That creepy monotone is weirding me out.”

Jim stayed quiet for so long I lifted the ice to see if he's still there.

“Can I touch you?” He finally asked.

I thought about it for a bare second. “'Kay. Don't put any pressure anywhere or I _will_ kick your balls out your nostrils.”

Whoever designed this apartment apparently never envisioned two full-grown men in it. All Jim had to do was stand on his toes and he could flatten his palm against the ceiling. I may be compact but I'm not skinny or narrow and with Jim's six feet of muscles, it took some (very painful) maneuvering to fit us both on the bed.

A phone connected. I spoke before the other person could, “Hey, Jack. It's me-”

_“Blair,”_ said Professor Stoddard, _“where are you?”_

Jim reached down, running his fingers over my skull, nails scraping carefully through my hair. I shivered. His fingers tightened.

“And hi! How are you doin'? It's been years to you too!” That's right, Jim mentioned Jack and the Professor were traveling together. “Where's Jack?”

_“He's...busy.”_

“But okay?”

_“Yes.”_

“That's good, I have questions-”

_“Where are you?”_

“-about this guide ambush tonight. Did you hear anything about this?”

_“No. However, Patrick Stanley is accusing you of trying to make trouble.”_

“Really?” I damned near sang, “How interesting. You mean Stanley, head of ACSS, right?”

_“Yes.”_

“Thanks for the heads up.”

_“Where-”_

“Gotta go. Bye!”

I snapped the phone shut then looked at Jim. “So Pretty Stanley's in charge of this shebang and he's got them.”

Jim was still looking out through the slit in the curtain windows. “I don't know who fired those shots at Buntu's group.”

How do you know Buntu's posse was the target then? 

He continued, “We haven't found the shooter back at the shop either.”

Nice, typical of us to have two or three conversations at the same time.

Instead I asked, “Pat's not the sniper?”

“No.”

“You do know he's my chauffeur, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where ever we're going, I want Jack and the Professor with us. We need to get them.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Jim laughed. “You won't even save yourself.”

“I'm following you now, aren't I?”

“Are you?”

Anger propelled me up. The sudden motion almost made me pass out. “MOTHE-aarghhhhmmmmm!”

Jim sat up slower. I can feel him and despite my dimming vision, I turned, “I'm sorry, okay?”

“Are you going to do exactly what I tell you?”

“No,” I replied reluctantly. “How could I when you don't tell me anything useful? You give directions and orders, or maybe, if you're feeling nice, a destination. What the fuck is that, Ellison?”

“Stress.”

“Damn it, man, my wolf even came to you and showed you where I am. I'm cooperating.”

Jim looked at me, the beam of sunlight coming through the window sliced his face in half. “My street contacts,” he said slowly, “never lost sight of you.”

In the silence I hear helicopter rotors.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://investigator-mutsuki.tumblr.com). The Wild Hunt is found only on AO3.
> 
> I'm sorry, my tenses are all over the place. I've been slowly fixing them. This is stress relief for me, so thank you for reading and commenting. It means a lot.
> 
> X-posted to [Sentinel_Thurs](Sentinel_thurs.livejournal.com) Community (:D Thanks, Mab, for giving me a clue.) and my [fanfic Livejournal](reality_suture.livejournal.com/profile). Now with an [Extended Notes & Thanks](http://reality-suture.livejournal.com/46388.html) page.
> 
>  **Disclaimers** : No copyright infringement is intended. No money is made off of this. The Sentinel TV series belongs to Pet Fly, Paramount Home Entertainment, UPN and all other artistic/corporate entity who are not me.


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